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PUBLISHED  BY 

PAUL  SOBOLESKL 
West    Randolph    Si., 
CHICAGO,  ILLS. 


Reserve 

Collection 


if. 


GENIUS  OF  POLISH  HISTORY. 


Wygnancy,  co  tak  dlugo  bladzicie  po  £wiecie, 
Kiedyz  znuzonym  stopom  spoczynek  znajdziecie? 
Dziki  golab  ma  gniazdo,  robak  ziemi  brylg, 
Kazdy  cztowiek  ojczyzng,  a  Polak  mogilg 
Translation  on  NIEMCEWICZ'B  page.  (*) 


OF 


POLAND. 


A  COLLECTION  OF  POLISH  VERSE, 


INCLUDING  A  SHORT  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  HISTORY  OF  POLISH 

POETRY,  WITH  SIXTY  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES  OF 

POLAND'S  POETS  AND  SPECIMENS  OF  THEIR 

COMPOSITION,  TRANSLATED  INTO 

THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE. 


PAUL  SOBOLESKL 


CHICAGO: 
KNIGHT  &  LEONARD,  PRINTERS. 

1881. 


SURPLUS  I 


COPYRIGHT,  1881, 
BY  PAUL  SOBOLESKI. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


1.  GENIUS  OF  POLISH  HISTORY. 

2.  POLISH  AND  AMERICAN  COAT-OF- ARMS. 

3.  THREE  GREATEST  POLISH  POETS. 

4.  KOCHANOWSKI. 

5.  DRUZBACKA. 

6.  KARPINSKI'S  MONUMENT. 

7.  KRASICKI. 

8.  NlEMCEWICZ. 

9.  MlCKIEWICZ. 

10.  SlowACKi's  MONUMENT. 

11.  ZALESKI. 

12.  DEOTYMA. 

13.  GOSZCZYNSKI. 

14.  POL. 

15.  KONDRATOWICZ. 

16.  KRASZEWSKI. 


Besides  the  common  alphabet,  the  Poles  have  the 
following  accented  letters  —  and  as  they  may  occa- 
sionally occur  in  this  work,  it  is  deemed  proper  to 
explain  their  sounds  and  pronunciation  as  far  as  it  was 
possible  so  .to  do. 
<|  (nasal),  has  the  sound  of  the  French  on  as  in  son, 

pardon,  etc. 
(3,  is  pronounced  tsie. 

Q  (nasal),  has  the    sound   like  the  French  un,  as  in 

chacun,  or  like  in  as  in  main. 
±j  i,  very  nearly  as  the  English  I,  as  in  log,  long,  etc. 

BL,  is  pronounced  like  the  English  n  in  need,  or  in 
French,  gagne. 

0,  is  pronounced  like  the  English  oo. 

S,  like  the  English  s,  followed  by  c,  as  in  sea,  seize. 
fa,  like  the  English  z,  in  Zealand. 

J2,  is   pronounced   like  French  g  or  j,   as  in   genou, 
jambe,  jar  din. 

j,  is  always  pronounced  like  y. 

1,  like  ee. 

w,  like  English  v. 
\\,  like  oo 

cz,  like  the  English  ch,  as  in  child,  chip,  etc. 
sz,  like  sh,  as  in  shall,  shield,  etc. 
rz,  very  like  the  French  j,  as  \i\jardin. 
szcz,  like  stch. 

ch,  very  nearly  like  h,  or  like  the  German  ch,  as  in 
machen.  brechen,  etc. 


PRONUNCIATION  OF  POETS'  NAMES, 


BALINSKI,  - 

BERWINSKI,  - 

BRODZINSKI, 

BOGUSEAWSKI, 

DRUZBACKA,     - 

DMUCHOWSKI, 

DEOTYMA, 

FELINSKI, 

GAWINSKI, 

GARCZYNSKI, 

GASZYNSKI, 

GORECKI, 

GOSEAWSKI, 

GOSZCZYNSKI, 

HOLOWINSKI, 

JACHOWICZ,  - 

JAKUBOWSKI,    - 

JASKOWSKI,  - 

KARPINSKI, 

KLOKOWICZ, 


TRONOUNCE 

BAy-LIN-SKEE. 

BER-VIN-SKEE. 
BRO-DZIN-SKEE. 

Bo-GOO-SLAV-SKEE. 

DROOSH-BATZ-KAH. 

DMOO-HOV-SKEE. 

DEO-TE-MA. 

FEH-LIN-SKEE. 

GAH-VIN-SKEE. 

GAR-TSCHYN-SKEE, 

GAH-SHIN-SKEE. 

Go-RETZ-KEE. 

GOS-LAV-SKEE. 

GOSH-TCHIN-SKEE. 

HOLO-VIN-SKEE. 

YAH-HO-VITCH. 

YA-KOO-BOV-SKEE. 

YAS-KOV-SKEE. 

KAR-PIN-SKEE. 

KLO-NO-VITCH 


PRONUNCIATION   OF   POETS     NAMES. 


KOCHANOWSKI, 

KNIAZNIN, 

KONARSKI, 

KONDRATOWICZ, 

KORSAK  (RAY), 

KORSAK  (JUL), 

KORZENIOWSKI, 

KRASICKI, 

KRASINSKI, 

KRASZEWSKI, 

KROPINSKI, 

LENARTOWICZ, 

MALCZEWSKI,    - 

MIASKOWSKI, 

MINASOWICZ,    - 

MICKIEWICZ, 

MORAWSKI, 

NARUSZEWICZ, 

NIEMCEWICZ,    - 

ODYNIEC, 

OLIZAROWSKI,  - 

OSINSKI, 

POL,      - 

REY, 

SARBIEWSKI,     - 


PRONOUNCE 
Ko-HA-NOV-SKEE. 

KlN-AZ-NIN. 
Ko-NAR-SKEE. 
KON-DRAH  -TO- VITCH. 
KOR-SAK. 
KOR-SAK. 

KOR-ZHEN-OV-SKEE. 

KRAH-SITZ-KEE. 

KRAH-SIN-SKEE. 

KRAH-SHEV-SKEE. 

KRO-PIN-SKEE. 

LEH-NAR-TO-VITCH. 

MAL-TCHEV-SKEE. 

MlAS-KOV-SKEE. 

ME-NAH-SO-VITCH. 

MlTZ-KEH-VITCH. 
Mo-RAV-SKEE. 

NA-RUSH-EH-VITCH. 

NlEM-TZE-VITCH 

O-DEE-NETZ. 

O-LEE-ZAH-ROV-SKEE. 

O-SEEN-SKEE. 

POHL. 

REY. 

SAR-BIEV-SKEE. 


PRONUNCIATION    OF   POETS     NAMES.  9 

PKONOUNCE 

SIENKIEWICZ,  SEIN-KEH-VITCH. 

SLOW  AC  KI,  SLO-VATZ-KEE. 

SZYMONOWICZ,  SHE-MO-NO-VITCH. 

TREMBECKI,  TREM-BETZ-KEE. 

UJEJSKI,  -  OOY-EY-SKEE. 

WASILEWSKI,  VAH-SEE-LEHV-SKEE. 

WENGIERSKI,  VEN-GHER-SKEE, 

WITWICKI,  VIT-VITZ-KEE. 

WORONICZ,  YO-RO-NITCH. 

WYBICKI,  VE-BITZ-KEE. 

ZALESKI,  ZAH-LES-KEE. 

ZAN,       -  ZAHN. 

ZIMOROWICZ,  ZE-MO-RO-VITCH. 

ZMIECHOWSKA,  ZMEE-HOV-SKAH. 

ZMORSKI,         ....  ZMOR-SKEE. 


INTRODUCTION. 


IT  has  been  said  that  the  most  interesting  phenome- 
non in  the  history  of  a  people  is  the  rise  and  progress 
of  its  literature.  As  in  an  individual  man,  so  it  is 
likewise  in  a  nation,  life  manifests  itself  in  a  twofold 
mariner:  in  action  and  in  word.  A  wise  man  of  an- 
tiquity once  said  to  an  individual  unknown  to  him: 
"Speak,  that  I  may  know  you."  Thus  we  can  address 
ourselves  to  every  civilized  people — "show  us  your 
literature,  that  we  may  judge  of  the  actual  state  of  your 
civilization,  your  character  and  your  general  qualifi- 
cations." 

11 


12        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

It  is  not  enough  that  a  nation  has  a  literature  of 
its  own,  and  that  she  sets  it  in  sight  of  the  progression 
of  humanity.  It  is  not  enough  that  she  has  actors 
appearing  on  the  scene  of  learning  and  knowledge; 
a  nation  which  has  a  desire  to  live  and  to  advance  with 
proper  dignity  to  her  destiny  must  also  have  specta- 
tors, hearers  and  learners  in  the  grand  school  of  social 
vitality.  In  these  lies  her  hope  that  she  will  not  fall, 
and  that  she  will  develop. 

People  are  but  collective  units  arising  from  individ- 
ual or  single  beings  united  by  force  of  nationality, 
laws,  inherent  powers  and  actions.  They  grow  and 
flourish  in  accordance  with  their  natural  elements  and 
its  development — and  this  development  is  the  flower 
and  the  most  beautiful  crown  of  its  existence. 

As  every  nation  is  but  a  part  of  the  grand  division 
of  the  human  society  which  it  influences  by  its  own 
characteristics,  so  is  the  literature  of  each  nationality 
a  part  of  the  general  enlightenment — which,  circulating 
around  according  to  its  strength  and  spirit,  tends  in 
the  same  direction,  and  contributes  toward  making  the 
whole  human  kind  more  enlightened  and  more  happy. 

The  literature  of  such  people  is  a  record  of  their 
spiritual  existence,  and  hence  it  becomes  their  duty  — 
a  duty  which  they  owe  to  themselves  and  the  country 
of  their  birth  —  to  disseminate  it,  though  it  be  in  an 
humble  way,  among  the  nations  of  the  earth.  Placed 
in  an  apotheotic  light  on  the  heights  of  time,  encom- 
passing the  past  and  the  future,  it  points  out  the 
direction,  the  mind  and  the  feelings  of  the  people  from 
whose  hearts  it  sprung — at  the  same  time  erecting  im- 
perishable monuments  for  them  which  neither  passing 
misfortunes  nor  the  relentless  hand  of  time  can  ever 
obliterate. 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

Years  ago  there  existed  a  great  nation — great  in 
achievements — noble  in  her  bearing,  toward  her  neigh- 
bors—  a  warlike  and  chivalrous  people,  who  once 
commanded  the  respect  and  admiration  of  the  world. 
That  nation  was  POLAND.  Since  she  began  to  play  an 
important  role  in  the  history  of  nations  she  could 
count  over  1,500  literary  names,  many  of  which  were 
at  the  time ,  and  are  now,  illustrious  in  the  annals  not 
only  of  Poland,  but  of  the  world.  Prostrate,  parti- 
tioned, suffering,  and  blotted  out  as  it  were  from 
existence,  she  awaits  the  fulfillment  of  her  destiny. 
Fate  sometimes  strikes  nations  as  it  does  individuals, 
but  hope  in  her  case,  though  it  may  seem  futile  to 
other  nationalities,  never  forsakes  the  sorrowing  hearts 
of  her  children.  Scattered  though  they  are  through- 
out the  confines  of  the  habitable  globe,  they  have 
never  ceased  to  wait,  to  hope,  and  to  trust,  that  she 
will  once  more  be  resuscitated,  resurrected,  regen- 
erated, and  once  more  counted  among  the  nations  of 
the  earth!  And  we  think  that  we  are  not  mistaken 
when  we  say  that  there  are  many  noble  hearts  in  all 
nationalities  who  would  respond  to  this  heartfelt  long- 
ing with  an  AMEN! 

It  is  not  the  intent  of  the  compiler  and  editor  of 
this  work  to  go  into  a  diffuse  history  of  Polish  litera- 
ture; his  resources  being  rather  limited,  he  must  do 
-as  best  he  can.  The  purpose  of  this  volume  is  only  to 
take  a  cursory  glance,  and  to  present  to  the  American 
public  the  names  of  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
Polish  poets,  with  short  biographical  sketches  and 
some  specimens  of  their  productions  translated  into  the 
English  language  —  some  of  which  may  not  be  equal  to 
the  originals  in  the  easy  flow  of  language  and  the 
beauty  of  expression.  The  Polish  tongue  may  seem  to 


14        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

other  nationalities  as  somewhat  harsh  and  discordant, 
but  in  reality  it  is  one  of  the  most  flowery,  expressive, . 
and  harmonious  languages  extant.     No  language  can 
excel  it  in  heroic  verse,  nor  claim  preeminence  over  it 
in  the  expression  of  sentiment. 

Although  the  editor  has  written  and  translated  a 
goodly  part  of  THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND,  he 
availed  himself  of  some  translations  of  Dr.  John 
Bowring,  a  distinguished  English  litterateur,  and  of 
Dr.  Thomas  D.  English,  an  American  gentleman  of 
eminent  poetical  talent.  He  also  cheerfully  acknowl- 
edges assistance  and  advice  of  friends  well  experienced 
in  literary  matters. 

In  presenting  this  work  to  the  public  the  editor 
can  truthfully  state  that  he  has  been  patiently  waiting 
for  thirty  years  for  some  of  his  learned  and  able  coun- 
trymen to  come  to  the  front  with  a  work  on  "the 
Poets  and  Poetry  of  Poland,"  but  up  to  this  period  no 
one  has  yet  appeared,  so  this  important  task  has  fallen 
to  his  lot.  •  He  cheerfully  accepts  the  situation,  and 
in  offering  this  to  the  AMERICAN  PEOPLE  and  to  his 
countrymen,  he  regrets  that  the  collection  is  not  more 
complete  and  not  more  satisfactory  to  himself — for  he 
can  proclaim  to  the  world,  without  any  egotistical  feel- 
ing of  nationality,  but  in  all  the  sincerity  of  his  heart, 
that  Polish  literature  is  a  deep  mine  of  precious  treas- 
ure, although  outside  of  its  own  people  it  has  been  • 
known  but  little  heretofore.  There  may  have  been 
impediments  to  cause  this  delay,  but  as  the  world 
advances  in  knowledge  and  general  enlightenment  these 
hidden  treasures  will  be  unearthed  and  brought  to 
light. 

This  volume   only  points    out  the  place  where  it 
lies  inert,  and  fortunate  will  be  the  hand  that  will  in 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

the  future  unearth  these  untold  poetical  treasures  that 
have  for  so  many  years  lain  hidden  from  the  sight  of 
one  of  most  enlightened  people,  the  Anglo-Americans; 
but  the  way  having  once  been  opened,  there  will  be 
found  in  the  future  stronger  and  abler  hands,  who  can 
add  to  this  work  a  great  deal  of  valuable  matter  which 
would  be  interesting,  not  only  to  the  American  people 
and  the  Poles,  but  to  the  world. 

PAUL  SOBOLESKI. 


THREE  GREATEST  POLISH  POETS. 


POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


The  rise  and  progress  of  Polish  Poetry  and  general  liter- 
ature may  be  divided  in  five  distinct  epochs,  to-wit  : 

First  Epoch  —  Called  Piast- Jagellon  Epoch,  from  the  year 
1000  to  1500. 

Second  Epoch  —  That  of  King  Sigismund,  and  extending 
from  1500  to  1620. 

Third  Epoch  — The  Jesuit  Epoch,  from  1620  to  1750. 

Fourth  Epoch — Known  as  the  Classic  Epoch  (or  Kon- 
arski's  Epoch),  from  1750  to  1822. 

Fifth  Epoch  —  The  Romantic  Epoch,  commencing  with 
the  appearance  of  Adam  Mickiewicz  and  extending  up  to  the 
present  time. 

FIRST  EPOCH. 

PIAST-JAGELLON.  WHICH  MAY  BE  CONSIDERED  AS  THE  MORNING 
STAR  OF  POLISH  LITERATURE.  IT  DATES  FROM  THE  INTRO- 
DUCTION OF  CHRISTIANITY  TO  THE  TIME  WHEN  PRINTING  CAME 
INTO  GENERAL  USE 1000-1500. 

Before  the  tenth  century  the  history  of  Polish  Poetry 
is  rather  dim  and  uncertain.  It  is  only  since  the  intro- 
duction of  Christianity  into  Poland,  during  the  reign  of 
Mieczyslas  I,  that  the  Polish  literature  assumed  a  per- 
ceptible shape.  With  the  advance  of  civilization  the 
idols  created  in  bygone  days,  before  which  the  people 
bowed,  were  one  by  one  demolished,  and  the  prejudices 

17 


18  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

of  the  past  so  thoroughly  subverted  that  in  a  short 
time  scarcely  a  vestige  of  them  was  left.  We  have, 
indeed,  old  reminiscences  of  songs,  fables,  and  tradi- 
tions, but  we  lind  them  all  pervaded  in  exaggeration 
and  superstition. 

In  this  interesting  period  we  had  poems,  secular 
songs,  and  other  kinds  of  rhythmical  compositions,  be- 
cause circumstances  surrounding  our  people — such  as 
wars,  victories,  and  defeats  ;  weddings,  funerals,  and 
national  ceremonies — naturally  called  into  existence  the 
feeling  of  poetical  inspiration  ;  hence  bards  appeared 
who  were  the  creators  of  these  compositions.  We  had 
also  religious  poetry,  because  from  time  immemorial 
our  people  sung  in  churches  in  the  Polish  language; 
but  the  relics  of  the  original  sacred  poetry  are  very 
scarce,  since  in  the  progression  and  refinement  of  the 
Polish  language  these  compositions  were,  so  to  speak, 
made  over,  and  hence  many  of  them  lost  the  stamp  of 
their  originality. 

In  the  fifteenth  century  Polish  Poetry  made  but  little 
progress  ;  indeed,  we  may  say  it  stood  as  it  was  in  the 
age  of  Piast — in  its  infancy.  Scholastic  philosophy  and 
the  Latin  tongue  stifled,  as  it  were,  the  native  vein  pf 
the  Polish  songs, — scarcely  the  traces  of  a  few  were  pre- 
served. Toward  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  when 
our  people  became  more  numerous  and  stronger,  our 
poets  also  began  to  assume  more  distinct  and  promi- 
nent places.  We  no  longer  rest  on  conjectures  and  in- 
ferences, but  upon  monumental  evidences.  Sacred 
poetry  was  founded  upon  several  renditions  of  the 
Psalms,  as  also  upon  sacred  songs  translated  from  the 
Bohemian,  and  the  secular  rested  upon  a  wider  range 
and  continual  improvement  on  the  Piast  period.  Hence 
the  rhythmical  compositions  of  that  period  not  being 


POETRY    OF    POLAND.  19 

characterized  by  any  especial  shading  of  poetry,  we  will 
only  classify  the  remaining  traces  and  monuments. 

1.  Relics  of  sacred  poetry.  2.  Of  secular  rhyth- 
mical creations.  In  fact  we  could  mention  some  dra- 
matic souvenirs  of  those  ages,  but  as  they  are  of  no 
great  significance,  we  leave  that  part  to  the  pen  of  a 
special  inquirer. 

RELICS  OF  SACRED  POETRY. 

After  the  introduction  of  Christianity,  the  Polish 
Poetry,  being  under  the  influence  of  the  civilization  of 
Western  Europe,  began  to  flourish  very  early  in  sacred 
or  church  songs  ;  although  these  songs  were  chiefly 
translations  from  the  Bohemian  tongue,  or,  we  should 
rather  remark,  they  were  sort  of  made  over. 

Of  the  earliest  poetic  compositions  nothing  has  yet 
been  found.  Whether  they  had  been  wholly  lost,  or 
were  defaced  by  continual  use  in  handling  and  tran- 
scribing, is  uncertain  ;  but  as  no  religion  has  ever  done 
without  songs  and  chants,  we  may  naturally  presume 
that  such  had  existed.  Songs  and  chants  of  that  kind 
form  the  nucleus  of  every  nation's  poetry  and  music,  and 
it  was  in  such  rhythmical  composition  that  the  Polish 
language  began  to  put  forth  its  shoots,  to  refine  and 
improve.  Pious  simplicity  especially  characterizes  these 
compositions;  intrinsically  they  have  no  poetical  worth, 
being  as  it  were  only  prose  un skillfully  versified. 

From  the  most  important  of  these  compositions 
which  came  down  to  our  times,  and  which  deserve 
notice,  is  : 

1.  "•  Boga  Eodzica"  (the  Mother  of  God),  origi- 
nally composed  by  St.  Adelbert.  This  celebrated  chant 
was  composed  in  the  Bohemian  language,  and  was  sung 
by  the  Poles  before  the  commencement  of  every  battle, 


20  POETS    AND    POETRY    OB'    POLAND. 

and  is  to  this  day  sung  during  the  divine  services  in  the 
Cathedral  of  Gniezno.  The  author  of  this  celebrated 
chant  was  born  in  950  in  Bohemia,  and  was  the  Bishop 
of  Prague.  Being  persecuted  by  the  Bohemians,  he 
removed  at  first  .to  Hungary,  and  then  to  Poland. 
That  was  during  the  reign  of  Mieczyslas  I,  where  he 
was  instrumental  in  spreading  the  newly  introduced 
doctrines  of  Christianity.  In  the  year  995,  with  the 
advice  of  Boleslas  the  Great,  King  of  Poland,  he  went 
to  Prussia  to  instruct  the  pagans  of  that  country  in 
Christianity,  and  suffered  the  death  of  a  martyr  at 
Fishhausen.  Bole.-las  the  Great  bought  his  body  from 
the  Prussians  and  had  it  burietl  with  great  ceremony  at 
Gniezno.  Otto  III,  the  Emperor  of  Germany,  visited 
his  grave. 

2.  Fiftieth  Psalm  from  thirteenth  century. 

3.  Sorrows  of  the  Mother  of  God  under  the  Cross 
of  the  Redeemer. 

4.  Psalter  of  Margaret,  the  Princess  of  the  Mora- 
vians, from  fourteenth  century  ;  but  it  is  not  certain 
whether  the  production  belongs  to  Margaret,  the  wife 
of  Louis,  King  of  Hungary,  or  to  Maria,   the  King's 
eldest   daughter.      From   certain    passages   there   are 
traces  giving  us  to  understand  that  it  was  the  first  trial — 
the  first  translation  of  the  psalter. 

5.  The  Psalter   of  Queen  Hedwige,  from   fifteenth 
century— the  two  first  psalms. 

6.  Be  Praised  the  Queen  (Salve  Regina),  from  the 
year  1406. 

Of  the  names  of  the  authors  of  religious  songs  of 
those  days  the  following  are  known  to  us  : 

JOHN  WITOWSKI,  the  companion  of  Ladislaus  Lokietek, 
who  composed  a  song  on  the  sufferings  of  our  Lord, 
which  was  sung  in  Poland  during  Lent. 


POETRY    OF    POLAND.  21 

JOHN  OPALINSKI,  the  bishop  of  Posen,  a  great  lover 
of  music  and  good  cheer.  He  wrote"  a  song  about  the 
Ascension  ;  the  Immaculate  Virgin  Mary  ;  a  song 
about  St.  Adelbert  ;  five  songs  about  St.  Peter,  and 
six  about  St.  Paul.  These  songs  were  sung  by  the 
religious  brotherhood  of  Posen. 

JOHN  PREWORSZCZYK,  from  fifteenth  century,  who 
collected  a  small  volume  of  "  Anthems  "  (1435).  This 
collection  contains  originals  and  translations  from  the 
Latin,  and  the  title  is  also.  Latin. 

ANDREW  FROM  ShrpiA,  a  Benedictine  monk,  wrote 
songs  of  the  Queen  of  Heaven  ;  also  hymns  to  Jesus 
Christ  and  others.  Thes'e  compositions  are  superior  to 
any  previously  written. 

At  that  period  the  Poles  had  not  come  to  full  civili- 
zation, and  yielded  to  the  influences  of  Western 
Europe.  Their  poetry  began  at  once  to  assume  a 
higher  grade,  and  became  more  assimilated  with  music, 
full  of  sweet  harmony.  Between  965-1040,  however, 
they  still  sang  the  old  songs.  The  boors  guarding  the 
bordering  Castles  during  the  reign  of  Boleslas  the 
Romantic,  about  King  Popiel,  were  commonly  sung  by 
young  girls,  and  were  not  given  up  until  the  death  of 
Boleslas  the  Great.  There  were  also  many  dumas 
about  the  Tartars,  who,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  about 
every  twenty  years  made  incursions  into  Poland ;  but 
after  a  while  these  songs  fell  into  disuse. 

There  were  also  many  ritual  songs.  The  fragments 
of  these  compositions  attest  their  antiquity.  Many  of 
these  were  made  over  into  Christian  songs,  leaving, 
however,  the  traces  of  some  primitive  words  originally 
used,  which  plainly  identify  them  as  the  relics  of  old 
times. 

The  wedding  songs  were  preserved  the  best  of  any 


22  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

during  almost  eight  centuries.  These  songs  seem  to 
possess  an  idyllic  tendency,  and  have  come  down  even 
to  the  present  time  in  their  primitiveness.  From  these 
remnants  the  following  deserve  mention  : 

1.  Congratulatory  song  to  King  Casimir  I,  begin- 
ning with  the  words    "  Welcome,  welcome,    our  dear 
host." 

2.  Plaintive  songs   of    Boleslas   the    Great,   which 
Martin  Gallus  translated  into  Latin. 

3.  Song   in    honor  of    Boleslas,    surnamed    "The 
Crooked-Mouthed." 

4.  Song  describing  the   assassination  of  Ludgarda 
by  her  husband  Przemyslas. 

5.  Song  about  Albert,  the  Justice  of  the  City  of 
Cracow. 

6.  Song  about  Vitold. 

7.  Song  concerning  the  calamity  of  Bukowina. 
The  most  distinguished  authors  of  those  times  are  : 
ANDREW  GA}KA,  the  Professor  in  the  Academy   of 

Cracow,  and  Canon  of  St.  Thomas'  Church,  lived  in 
fifteenth  century.  He  composed  a  song  about  Wick- 
liffe,  who  encouraged  Huss's  religious  views  among  the 
Poles. 

ADAM  SWINKA,  the  Cathedral  Canon  of  Cracow,  and 
Secretary  of  Jagello,  lived  in  fifteenth  century.  He 
wrote  beautiful  elegiac  verses  in  the  Latin  tongue  ; 
epitaph  on  the  death  of  Queen  Hedwige ;  composition 
on  the  death  of  Zawisza*,  surnamed  "The  Black." 
Besides  these  he  wrote  a  heroic  poem — "De  rebus 
gestis  ac  dictus  memorabilibus  Casimiri  Secundi  Polo- 
niae  Regis  inclitissimi."  These  songs  were  translated 
into  Polish  by  Louis  Kondratowicz. 

CONRAD  CELTES  wrote  "Carmen  ad  Vistulam,"  de- 
*  A  celebrated  Polish  hero. 


POETRY    OF    POLAND.  23 

scribing  the  channel  of  the  river  Vistula ;  "Salinaria 
ad  Janum  Terinum,"  describing  the  salt  mines  of 
Wieliczka.  His  influence  fired  the  Polish  youth  to  the 
Roman  Classic  literature. 

Celtes  was  born  in  Germany  in  1459,  and  was 
crowned  with  a  wreath  by  the  Emperor  of  Germany 
for  his  Latin  poetry.  While  visiting  for  scientific  pur- 
poses Rome,  Venice,  lllyria,  and  Panonia,  he  came  to 
Cracow  to  hear  Albert,  from  Brudziewa,  lecture  on 
Astronomy.  He  remained  in  Cracow  two  years,  divid- 
ing his  time  in  the  study  of  astronomy,  reading  the 
classics,  and  writing  poetry  in  Latin,  breathing  his 
love  to  Hasilina,  a  Cracovian  maiden, — as  also  enjoy- 
ing the  literary  society  of  the  young  academicians.  He 
died  in  1508. 

SECOND    EPOCH. 

CALLED  "  THE  SIGISMUND  EPOCH."    GOLDEN  ADVENT  OF  POLISH 
POETRY— 1500-1620. 

In  the  Second  Epoch  we  see  another,  a  wider,  and 
a  more  beautiful  field  opening  before  us.  What  was 
only  in  the  bud  is  in  this  epoch  in  full  bloom.  For- 
merly it  was  only  the  light  of  the  moon  struggling  to 
penetrate  through  the  darkness  of  ages.  Now  the 
golden  rays  of  the  sun  throw  a  new  halo  and  form 
enchantingly  mingled  colors  of  the  rainbow.  In  those 
days  the  historian  was  anxiously  looking  for  the  small- 
est possible  traces,  but  now  in  the  abundance  of  pro- 
ductions his  task  is  only  to  select  what  is  the  best. 

Weary  of  traveling  amidst  the  woodless  and  track- 
less prairies,  we  begin  with  pleasure,  and  hope  to  see 
the  accounts  of  true  literature  springing  up  from  the 


24        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

inner  life  of  a  developing  people  and  multiplying  in 
the  production  of  poets,  orators,  and  historians.  It 
was  still  more  singular  that  the  advance  was  made  in 
two  different  languages  —  the  Polish  and  the  Latin  — 
equally  well  cultivated.  It  seemed  as  if  two  litera- 
tures began  to  bloom  all  at  once  in  one  and  the  same 
people.  Thus  we  begin  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  characteristic  signs  of  this  age  were  great  dis- 
coveries and  inventions.  At  no  previous  time  was 
there  so  much  anxiety  and  lively  desire  to  study  and 
ascertain  the  inherent  qualities  of  Nature  ;  never  be- 
fore the  spirit  of  inquiry  and  searching  after  was  wider 
than  in  this  epoch  of  Columbus,  Gama,  Raphael, 
Copernicus,  Galileo,  and  Guttenberg  ;  the  world  be- 
came 'broader  and  more  expansive  by  bold  conception 
of  one  man  ;  received  a  new  world  from  the  hands  of 
another,  and  if  in  accordance  with  the  system  of  the 
Creator  himself,  it  was  built  over  anew  as  if  by  the  en- 
chanter's hand ;  the  times  of  chivalry  disappeared  ; 
Art  thrusts  the  barbaric  weapon  out  of  the  hands  of 
the  stronger ;  knowledge  subverts  the  idols  of  scholas- 
tics ;  and,  finally,  that  the  ideal  should  not  be  lost, 
Ariosto,  Camoens,  Cervantes,  and  their  compeers,  ap- 
pear upon  the  stage.  Perhaps  at  no  period  so  many 
eminent  men  made  their  appearance  at  the  helm: 
Leo  X,  Charles  V,  Francis  I,  Sigismund  the  Old, 
Henry  VIII,  Soliman,  Shah  Ismael,  and  Shah  Akbar. 
Amidst  the  turbulence  of  those  days,  there  was  one 
country  beyond  the  confines  of  Western  Europe  occu- 
pying the  common  sphere  of  knowledge  shed  by  the 
light  of  Christianity,  which  quietly  progressed  in  the 
general  improvement,  in  the  science  of  government, 
literature,  and  general  enlightenment. 

In  their  active  life  the  Poles  nursed  their  own  ideas, 


POETKY    OF    POLAND.  25 

in  shaping  and  by  degrees  unfolding  their  natural  char- 
acter, and  thus  the  Polish  Nation,  by  uninterrupted  pro- 
gression, was  nearing  to  her  maturity. 

At  this  epoch  Polish  Poetry  and  Polish  Music  kept 
even  pace  with  other  branches  of  natural  advancement. 
Poets  of  great  distinction  appeared,  their  compositions 
shedding  a  great  luster  over  the  national  literature- 
Nicholas  Rey,  JohnKochanowski,Klonowicz,  Miaskow- 
ski,  and  others.  Besides  these  there  were  Polish  poets 
who  wrote  in  the  Latin  tongue,  as  for  instance  : 

DANTYSZEK,  who  is  the  author  of  "  De  yirtutis  et 
honore  differentia  Somnium  ";  "Carmen  Extempora- 
rum  de  victoria  insigni  Sigismundi  Regis";  "  De  nos- 
trorum  temporum  Calamitatib us  ";"  Jonas  propheta 
de  interitu  civitatis  Gedanensis  ";  "  Epigramata  varia," 
etc:  etc. 

PAUL  KROSNIANIN  also  sung  for  posterity  many 
memorable  things:  "Jureditum  Sigismundi  I,  Regis 
Poloniae";  "De  nuptiis  Sigismundi  Regis  Poloniae  et 
Bonae  Ducis  Mediolani  iiliae,"  etc.  etc. 

CLEMENS  JANICKI.  All  of  his  poetry  belongs  to 
lyric  compositions.  Their  smoothness  reminds  the 
scholar  of  .Ovid,  and  on  account  of  the  outpouring  of  a 
great  feeling  he  can  be  justly  compared  to  Catullus  and 
Tibullus.  This  epoch  comes  down  to  the  year  1620. 

THIRD   EPOCH. 

CALLED  THE  JESUIT    PERIOD — 1620-1750. 

A  distracted  state  of  the  country  in  consequence  of 
internal  quarrels  and  wars  caused  also  the  decadence  in 
Polish  literature.  It  is  with  much  regret  and  reluctance 
that  this  fact  is  stated.  The  deviation  from  the  right 
way  of  a  single  age  caused  the  retrogression  of  Poland ; 


26        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

and- while  all  countries  surrounding  us  were  advancing 
in  light,  we  were  thrown  into  darkness  and  became,  as 
it  were,  the  sport  of  a  relentless  fate.  Sad,  indeed, 
is  the  lesson  received  from  our  forefathers,  that  retro- 
gression from  light  is  far  more  detrimental  to  the  hap- 
piness of  a  nation  than  the  simplicity  of  ignorance. 

After  the  death  of  Jagellons  and  Stephen  Batory, 
many  misfortunes  came  over  our  people.  Incursions 
of  enemies  and  internal  dissensions  caused  many  suf- 
ferings to  the  Republic.  As  if  to  compensate  for  this 
retrogression,  immortal  heroes  appeared  on  the  stage 
of  action.  Zolkiewski,  Czarnecki,  Chodkiewicz,  and 
John  Sobieski  shed  upon  their  country  a  true,  heroic 
luster,  as  they  not  only  fought  for  their  own  country, 
but  for  entire  Christendom. 

We  should  not  very  much  transgress  if  we  said  that 
in  this  period  we  show  but  few  distinguished  names  in 
poetry.  Zimorowicz,  Gawinski,  Mortszyn,  Kochowski, 
Elizabeth  Druzbacka,  and  Prince  JabJonowski  belong  to 
this  period,  and  we  have  every  reason  to  be  proud  of 
them.  This  period  extends  from  Sigismund  III  to 
Stanislaus  Augustus. 

FOURTH  EPOCH. 

PSEUDO-CLASSIC,  OR  KONARSKI'S  EPOCH,  OR  REVIVAL  OF  GEN- 
ERAL KNOWLEDGE  AND  LITERATURE  IN  POLAND. 

The  unpropitious  times  of  Sigismunds  under  the 
blasts  of  which  the  flowers  of  Polish  Poesy  began  to 
wither  had  passed  away.  The  circumstances,  how- 
ever, and  elements  of  this  new  period  were  very  favor- 
able toward  reviving,  regenerating,  and  improving  the 
almost  neglected  branches  of  literature.  The  languish- 
ing powers  of  the  Polish  Muse  were  all  of  a  sudden 


POETRY    OF    POLAND.  27 

strengthened  and  exalted  as  if  by  the  enchanter's 
wand.  .Poets  like  Karpinski,  Trembecki,  Woronicz, 
Kniaznin,  Krasicki,  Wengierski,  Szymonowicz,  Dmuch- 
owski,  and  others  appeared  in  the  galaxy.  Authors  of 
great  distinction  in  other  branches  of  literature  began 
to  multiply  with  astonishing  rapidity.  The  King  him- 
self, being  a  learned  man,  encouraged  men  of  genius 
with  great  magnanimity. 

The  beginning  of  this  desirable  revival  was  chiefly 
owing  to  Konarski  and  his  companions,  who,  being 
educated  in  France  under  the  protection  of  Stanislaus 
Leszczyfiski,  on  their  return  to  their  native  land  brought 
fresh  ideas  with  them  regarding  social  science  and  liter- 
ature, and  hence  it  was  that  a  French  classic  literature 
was  inducted  into  Poland  similar  to  the  French  liter- 
ature existing  during  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  Konar- 
ski compelled  the  Jesuits  to  adopt  these  reforms,  and 
having  obtained  the  powerful  assistance  of  Joseph  and 
Andrew  Zaluski,  -  -  bishops  of  great  learning  arid 
influence  - — was  able  to  thus  effect  the  salvation  of 
their  countrymen  who  through  former  wars  and  inter- 
nal dissension  had  so  unfortunately  retrograded  from 
their  former  greatness. 

During  the  last  years  of  the  reign,  of  Augustus  III 
the  Polish  literature  was  enriched  by  works  of  great 
worth  on  history,  bibliography,  theology,  etc.  Minas- 
owicz  wrote  good  poetry  and  translated  into  the  Polish 
language  ancient  classics.  Nagurczewski  translated 
the  works  of  Homer,  Yirgil,  and  Cicero.  Jabionowski 
rendered  into  Polish  the  fables  of  .^Esop  and  Telem- 
achus. 

As  the  nineteenth  century  was  rapidly  approaching, 
learned  men  and  poets  found  protection  and  assistance 
in  the  houses  of  great  magnates;  and  Puiawy,  the  resi- 


28        POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  POLAND. 

dence    of  princes  Czartoryiski,   became  the    dwelling- 
place  of  the  Polish  muse. 

In  the  year  1800  there  sprung  up  at  Warsaw  "•  The 
Society  of  the  Friends  of  Learning."  Its  members 
were  men  of  great  learning,  and  vigorous  writers;  many 
of  the  poets  enlisted  under  that  auspicious  banner. 
The  object  of  that  society  was  to  preserve  from  oblivion, 
and  enrich,  the  wealth  of  the  Polish  literature.  This 
National  Society  gave  a  great  impetus  to  strenuous 
endeavors  by  men  of  genius  to  write.  Such  men  as 
Woronicz,  Niemcewicz,  Albertrandy,  Lelewel,  Bandt- 
kie,  Sniadecki,  Czacki,  Linde,  Ossolifiski,  and  others 
appeared  upon  the  stage  of  literary  fame.  Each  of 
these  celebrated  men  not  only  contributed  much  to  the 
general  literature  of  their  country,  but  exerted  great 
influence  over  the  tenor  and  literary  taste  of  those 
days.  Every  one  of  them  had  a  direct  bearing  on  the 
progression  of  literature,  and  for  that  reason  there  was 
an  uncommon  advance  in  poetry,  history,  and  natural 
sciences. 

Although  the  compositions  of  at  least  a  part  of  this 
period  were  somewhat  affected  by  French  idioms  and 
inflation,  yet  the  strength  of  the  national  current  pre- 
vailed and  preserved  the  native  purity  of  language  and 
ideas  unharmed. 


FIFTH  EPOCH. 

PSECDO-EOMANTIC  OR  MlCKIEWICz's  EPOCH EXTENDING  FROM 

THE  YEAR  1822  TO  THE  PRESENT  DAT. 

Amidst  the  many  violent  political  shocks  in  Europe, 
which  only  ended  with  the  downfall  of  Napoleon  the 
Great  and  the  Congress  of  Vienna  in  1815,  there  also 


POETRY    OF    POLAND.  29 

came  changes  in  the  intellectual  world.  Europe  got 
rid  of  mediaeval  excrescences  and  conceits  ! 

Thinking  men  must  admit  that  there  are  moments 
in  the  lives  of  nations  as  well  as  of  individuals  when 
the  mind,  rocked  by  the  storms  of  adversity,  longs  for 
quietness  and  rest.  When  we  see  that  the  happiness 
which  we  had  been  seeking,  the  great  aims  for  which 
we  have  been  striving  with  so  much  faith  and  devoted- 
ness,  have  come  to  nothing,  that  all  our  troubles  and 
endeavors  have  been  of  no  avail,  then  it  is  that  we  turn 
our  languishing  eyes  into  the  past  when  we  thought  we 
were  happy,  though  in  reality  we  were  only  compara- 
tively so,  not  knowing  that  it  might  and  should  be  better. 
We  look  as  if  into  the  mirror,  into  the  luster  of  sweet 
and  pleasing  remembrances  of  departed  years,  since 
now  they  seem  to  be  more  beautiful  and  more  poetic, 
just  because  they  will  never  return.  Such  time  is  pro- 
pitious to  the  unfolding  and  developing  into  bloom  of 
historical  poetry.  Such  an  epoch  in  modern  Europe 
was  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

The  political  and  intellectual  storms  of  the  last  hun- 
dred years  left  after  them  banished  hopes,  a  void,  and  a 
faintness.  From  the  smoldering  ashes  and  moss-over- 
grown ruins  the  mental  powers,  rent  by  doubts  and  a 
wounded  heart  which  the  present  could  not  satisfy,  the 
yearning  voice  spoke  forth  for  the  feeling  and  faith,  for 
the  greatness  and  poetry  of  olden  times.  This  was  in 
consequence  of  a  reaction  of  the  past. 

As  it  always  happens  that  when  there  is  a  new 
change  to  take  place  in  the  kingdom  of  imagination 
immediately  there  is  born  a  new  generation  willing  and 
ready  to  second  and  support  it,  so  it  was  at  this 
period.  Classicism  began  to  show  every  day  more  and 
more  plainly  that  its  time  was  about  over.  In  the 


30  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAJSTD. 

minds  of  the  highest  cultivation  it  began  to  lose,  gradu- 
ally, its  prestige,  and  although  no  one  could  see  at  the 
time  what  should  take  its  place,  everyone  felt  that  its 
decadence  was  at  hand,  when  lo  !  a  single  bard  ap- 
peared on  a  newly  erected  stage,  and  pronounced  the 
word  Romanticism.  Literary  men  gave  him  a  willing 
ear.  The  apostles  of  a  new  poetic  faith  began  to  in- 
crease and  multiply  and  with  much  enthusiasm  spread 
the  new  doctrine  of  poetic  inspiration,  and  thus  the 
new  Phoenix  was  born.  The  originator  of  the  ROMAN- 
TIC SCHOOL  was  ADAM  MICKIEWIOZ.  It  will  ever  be  a 
memorable  time  in  the  history  not  only  of  the  Polish 
but  of  European  poetic  literature.  Witwicki,  Gos- 
czyfiski,  Zaleski,  Goslawski,  and  others,  propelled  by 
the  current  of  their  genius,  joined  the  new  camp,  and 
having  sanctioned  the  new  doctrine,  upheld  it  with  the 
force  of  their  poetic  powers.  They  struck  the  strings 
which  up  to  this  period  were  not  only  untouched  but 
unknown.  The  self-created  spirit  broke  the  shackles 
of  former  days — shackles  that  so  strictly  bound  the  free- 
dom and  spirit  of  poetic  inspiration  to  certain  laid  down 
poetic  rules  in  composition.  Then  it  was  that  the  poetic 
flow  began  to  gush  out  from  the  eternal  spring  of  love 
and  phantasy.  The  Polish  nationality  received  this 
new  outgrowth  with  great  approbation  and  delight, 
which  is  still  in  popular  favor,  and  we  think  will  con- 
tinue so  for  generations  to  come. 

The  creations  of  our  poets  of  this  period  are  almost 
in  every  instance  breathing  with  a  peculiarly  happy, 
heartfelt,  and  lively  serenity  of  the  spirit.  Although 
sadness  and  tearfulness  preponderate  in  their  strains, 
yet  it  can  be  plainly  seen  that  they  are  pervaded  with 
a  strong  belief  in  the  guardianship  of  Providence  over 
the  affairs  of  this  world,  which  in  its  nature  is  hopeful 


POETRY    OF    POLAND.  31 

and  noble,  for  it  assures  sooner  or  later  the  additional 
triumph  over  the  power  of  falsehood  and  evil,  contend- 
ing against  them  and  temporarily  restraining  their  in- 
fluence over  the  world. 

Unlike  the  literatures  of  other  nationalities,  breath- 
ing doubts,  grief,  or  repulsive  flattery,  or  replete  with 
metaphysical  mysticism,  which  loses  itself  in  the  un- 
fathomable, our  ideals  had  something  in  them  of  re- 
ality, and  in  almost  all  poetic  creations  of  our  bards 
there  is  an  undercurrent  of  religiously  patriotic  love  of 
country,  deeper,  and  yet  more  purely  understood,  than 
in  any  other  literature. 

As  to  the  introduction  of  this  pseudo-romantic  style 
of  writing,  its  votaries  could  not  precisely  define  what 
they  wished  and  where  they  were  tending,  because  no 
one  precisely  understood  upon  what  system  this  Ro- 
manticism was  founded. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  heretofore  the  French 
system  stood  preeminent  in  the  Polish  literature,  but 
now  the  time  had  come  to  cut  loose  from  it,  and  Polish 
litterateurs  began  to  consider  the  poetic  elements 
governing  the  middle  ages  and  also  giving  much 
weight  to  the  German  style.  Happily  for  the  Poles 
that  the  deliberations  of  these  men  served  as  a  protec- 
tion in  the  incubation  of  the  style  purely  national. 

After  the  ebullition  of  the  first  youthful  enthusiasm 
was  over,  our  poets  began  to  examine  their  strength, 
but  finding  it  as  yet  very  undefined  they  turned  their 
attention  to  different  but  inexhaustible  sources — the 
treasures  of  popular  poetry,  which  led  to  the  love  of 
the  supernatural  and  miraculous,  and  to  the  fresh  tra- 
ditions of  the  great  past,  which  they  wished  to  preserve 
and  to  perpetuate  by  their  songs. 

But  what  was  the  aim  of  these  poets  ?      It.  was  to 


32        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

bring  nearer  to  the  sight  the  local  phenomena  of  exist- 
ence, to  increase  the  light,  to  make  the  home  history 
more  interesting,  and  to  preserve  in  the  mirror  of 
poetic  art  the  hereditary  thoughts  and  feelings,  as  also 
the  remembrances  upon  which  is  founded,  and  from 
which  emanates,  the  individuality  of  national  existence. 
All  the  above  mentioned  poets,  albeit  different  in  the 
tendencies  of  their  genius,  meet  at  the  same  point,  that 
is,  in  the  texture  and  concatenation  of  thought,  THE 
NATIONAL  feeling. 

During  the  existence  of  the  Duchy  of  Warsaw,  and 
subsequently  the  Kingdom  of  Poland,  and  especially 
until  the  year  1825,  the  whole  of  our  literature  flowed 
as  it  were  in  one  and  the  same  channel ;  but  since  the 
advent  of  BRODZINSKI  different  tendencies  began  to 
spread  over  the  country.  Civilization  had  extended  its 
blessings  all  over  the  Polish  nation,  and  at  the  same 
time  had  awakened  great  poetic  talent. 

Small  poetical  circles  were  formed  in  the  Kingdom 
of  Poland,  in  Lithuania  and  that  part  of  Poland  called 
Little  Russia,  comprising  Podolia,  Volhynia  and 
Ukraine,  forming  as  it  were  so  many  different  and 
distinct  pleiads,  but  shining  in  the  same  heavens  and 
constituting  our  whole  literature.  Padura,  ZalesM, 
G-oszczynski,  Olizarowski,  Groza,  and  others,  but  they 
were  all  outstripped  by  Brodzinski'1  s  "  Wieslaw  "  and 
Malozewski' 's  "Marya."  The  first  was  well  under- 
stood, but  the  other  seemed  incomprehensible  at  first, 
but  now  he  is  reckoned  among  the  first  poets  of  Poland. 

But  the  grand  center  of  poetic  power  was  ADAM 
MICKIEWICZ,  the  creator  of  a  new  and  splendid  epoch 
in  Polish  Poetry,  the  man  who  accomplished  a  twofold 
task,  that  of  gathering  in  his  own  personality  the  spirit 
of  the  whole  nation  and  raising  up  the  Polish  Poetry 


POETRY    OF   POLAND.  33 

to  the  rank  of  the  European  muse.  This  he  accom- 
plished most  successfully. 

In  Germany  the  Goethe  epoch  was  passing  way. 
The  era  of  English  poetry  was  beginning  to  change  by 
the  appearance  of  Lord  Byron  and  Walter  Scott. 
In  France  there  were  Lamartine  and  Victor  Hugo. 
Between  these  poets  and  Mickiewicz  there  was  that 
kindred  relationship  which  can  only  exist  among  men 
of  great  genius  at  the  same  time  and  without  any  re- 
gard to  nationality. 

The  imitators  of  Mickiewicz  did  not  exactly  equal 
his  genius.  Among  the  most  prominent  of  these  could 
be  counted  ODYNIEC,  ALEXANDER,  CHODZKO,  WITWICKI, 
MASSALSKI  and  JULIAN  KOKSAK.  . 

With  the  year  1831  a  new  inspiration  seemed  to 
have  taken  hold  of  the  whole  Polish  nation,  and  the 
Polish  literature  also  took  a  new  turn,  that  of  a  moral 
and  a  warm  patriotic  tendency.  From  this  time  Polish 
poetry  assumes  the  highest  possible  significance,  and 
becomes  the  leading  and  reigning  spirit  of  the  whole 
Polish  nationality. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  KEASINSKI  and  S!OWACKI 
unfolded  the  great  power  of  their  poetic  genius.  Then 
again  we  have  something  from  what  we  may  term 
Siberian  poetry,  from  CHAKLES  BALINSKI,  and  from  the 
literature  of  CAUCASUS  of  GUSTAVE  ZIELINSKI,  and  from 
one  of  the  foremost,  MAURICE  GOS!AWSKI,  who,  during 
the  prostration  of  the  nation  raised  his  voice  to  the 
highest  and  sung  the  heroic  songs,  which  •  from  this 
time  began  to  characterize  the  literature  of  Poland. 

YINCENT  POL  began  also  to  sing  of  the  past  glory 
and  loveliness  of  the  Polish  land,  and  thus  was  formed 
a  new  pleiad  of  a  young  generation  of  Polish  poets,  the 
most  distinguished  of  whom  were  BIELOWSKI,  SIEMIEN- 


34        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

SKI,  WASILEWSKI,  GROZA,  KONDRATOWICZ  (Syrokomla), 
BERWINSKI,  ZMORSKI,  GASZYNSKI,  LENARTOWICZ  and 
HEDWIGE  LUSZCZEWSKA  (Deotyma). 

We  come  now  to  a  period  when  the  Polish  muse 
takes  another  decided  turn.  KRASINSKI,  shuddering  at 
the  premonitions  of  death's  alarms,  reveals  to  the 
world  in  his  "  Psalms  "  the  mystery  of  Resurrection, 
and  UJEJSKI,  following  in  his  wake,  proclaims  his 
"Lamentations."  The  heroic  poetry,  too,  inscribes 
upon  the  pages  of  immortality  the  names  of  IASINSKI, 

GODEBSKI,   KORSAK,  SuCHODOLSKI  and  ROMANOWSKI. 

If  the  poetry  of  to-day  does  not  flow  in  any  other 
channel  than  heretofore,  it  certainly  adds  to  it  the 
great  play  upon  the  feelings,  and  beautifies  it  by 
variegated  shadings  of  the  picturesque  ;  keeping  always 
in  the  wake  of  national  traditions,  it  also  keeps  pace 
with  the  inward  fitness  of  national  spirit,  thereby 
awakening  constant  admiration  and  furnishing  material 
for  the  tuneful  lyre  of  the  Polish  bards. 

Polish  Poetry  during  the  reign  of  Sigismunds  is 
characterized  by  classic  conciseness  and  pleasing  sim- 
plicity. During  the  time  of  Stanislaus  Augustus,  it  is 
marked  by  accuracy  and  branching  out  in  the  richness 
of  the  language.  In  our  times  it  is  distinguished  by 
still  greater  purity,  taste,  and  general  improvement, 
which  may  be  considered  as  a  remarkable  augury  of 
eminent  progression,  especially  so  when  we  consider 
that  the  writers,  after  having  regained  the  original  purity 
of  the  vernacular  tongue,  will  in  future  do  away  with 
all  foreign  words  which  have  a  tendency  to  weaken 
the  expression  and  dignity  of  poetic  compositions  in 
the  Polish  language.  And  the  object  will  be  fully  ac- 
complished if  they  will  avoid  imitating  the  manner  of 
foreign  style  of  composition. 


POETRY    OF    POLAND.  35 

As  regards  the-  present  spirit  of  the  Polish  Poetry, 
we  see  the  love  of  country  pervades  everywhere. 
Zealous  admiration  of  noble  deeds,  tempered  ecstasy, 
free  imagination  untainted  by  fantastic  conceits,  mild 
in  tenderness,  simplicity,  morality  of  poetical  philoso- 
phy, and  beautiful  pictures  of  rural  life  and  family  in- 
tercourse. 

In  this,  as  it  were  improvised,  literature,  the  course 
of  which  has  been  lively  and  rapid,  are  expressed  the 
feelings  of  a  great  people's  national  records,  and  the 
spirit  of  Poland  long  ago,  but  these  have  not  yet  reached 
their  journey's  end, — not  to  their  final  destination.  It 

Still  goes  OjSfWAED  AND  UPWAKD. 


36  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 


REY. 

NICHOLAS  REY  may  be  considered  as  the  father  of 
Polish  poetry.  Following  in  the  train  of  the  age  he 
lived  in,  which  was  theological  Polemics,  he  partici- 
pated in  all  its  delusions  and  its  errors.  As  a  poet  he 
was  only  mediocre,  lacking  in  what  is  termed  the  poet- 
ical inspiration  ;  and  yet  although  the  reader  cannot 
recognize  Rey  as  a  genius,  he  will  discover  in  his  writings 
sober  and  substantial  thought,  healthy  and  forcible 
manner,  and  fresh  expressions,  somewhat  colored  but 
invariably  pithy.  If  his  poetical  compositions  are 
devoid  of  high  imagery,  they  show,  nevertheless,  and 
pointedly  too,  that  he  wished  to  demonstrate  to  the 
book-learned  teachers  and  professional  poets  the  exist- 
ence of  a  people's  literature,  and  thereby  awaken  in 
them  the  spirit  of  inquiry  in  regard  to  plebeian  or  popu- 
lar poetry, —  that  important  link — writing  for  the  first 
time  the  plebeian  literature  and  the  literature  of  the 
learned. 

Rey  was  indeed  a  true  bard,  and  did  much  toward 
the  elevation  of  the  Polish  Muse.  King  Sigismund 
Augustus  held  Rey  in  the  highest  esteem,  and  not  only 
patronized  and  enriched  him,  but  conferred  upon  him 
many  marks  of  distinction. 

Rey  was  born  in  1505,  and  passed  his  youth  in  frolic 
and  pleasure.  He  went  to  school  for  about  five  years, 
but  it  seems  he  did  not  learn  there  much  of  anything — 
not  till  the  twentieth  year  of  his  life,  when  through 
the  influence  of  his  uncle  he  obtained  a  place  with  a 
very  wealthy  family  of  Tenczynski,  who  generally 
spent  their  time  in  Italy,  and  associating  with  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Imperial  family,  knew  how  to  prize  learn- 


KEY.  37 

ing  and  learned  people,  and  understood  how  to  assimi- 
late the  customs  of  their  country  with  European  civili- 
zation. Hey  being  connected  with  a  family  of  such 
high  standing,  began  to  acquire  facility  in  the  writing 
of  Polish  letters  and  learned  a  little  Latin.  He  amused 
himself  with  study  and  music  and  began  to  compose 
verses,  but  he  never  could  stay  in  one  place ;  chiefly 
spending  his  time  in  hunting  he  cast  his  lot  with 
Hetrnan  Sieniawski  and  traveled  in  different  parts  of 
Poland,  frequenting  political  assemblies,  courts  of  jus- 
tice and  meetings  of  all  sorts,  being  everywhere 
received  with  much  eclat  as  a  man  of  good  cheer  and 
ready  wit,  fond  of  good  wine  and  a  sumptuous  table. 
Not  mixing  in  any  quarrels  or  contentions  of  any  kind, 
he  was  welcome  and  received  hospitality  no  matter 
where  he  turned.  Being  liked  by  all  except  by  strict 
Roman  Catholics,  he  passed  his  time  at  the  courts  of 
both  Sigismunds,  who  bestowed  upon  him  good  pay  and 
munificent  gifts.  Although  he  was  present  at  every 
assembly  and  almost  at  every  political  and  religious 
meeting,  he  never  would  accept  of  any  office. 

Amidst  all  the  allurements  of  social  circles  he  did 
not  neglect  his  calling  as  a  poet,  and  kept  improving 
as  he  grew  older.  He  died  in  1569. 

VIRTUE. 

Virtue  is  the  earth's  gem  of  gems, 
Rich  and  poor  the  diadems. 
Though  all  emeralds  formed  one  star, 
Virtue's  light  is  brighter  far  ! 
For  earth's  marts  man  has  not  made 
Balance  which  this  gem  hath  weighed, 
All  other  blessings  pass  or  fade  — 
Virtue  till  death  is  undismayed. 


38        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

VICE. 

Vice  is  a  serpent,  lying  through  all  weather, 
Coiled  up  unseen  beside  life's  wayside  stone. 

When  knave  and  fool  carousing  come  together, 
With  warning  hiss  it  makes  its  venom  known. 

The  following  is  Key's  description  of  what  Poland 
was  three  hundred  and  forty  years  ago  : 

Cast  your  eyes  around  you  and  behold  our  glorious  king- 
dom !  Strong  within  itself,  Poland  needs  no  assistance  from 
other  nations.  It  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  nations  in 
Europe,  and  in  martial  character  is  preeminent.  The  Lord 
of  all  has  placed  it  here,  and  endowed  her  people  with  many 
rare  qualities.  Is  there  a  nation  on  earth  equal  to  ours  in 
bravery  and  endurance?  The  intrepidity,  the  unyielding  per- 
severance and  daring  hei'oism  of  Polish  soldiers* surpasses 
anything  in  the  annals  of  history. 

In  knowledge  and  progress  Poland  stands  equal  if  not 
superior  to  other  nations.  In  her  most  brilliant  eras  she  has 
produced  many  men  eminent  in  science,  among  whom  we  can 
count  at  this  present  time  Copernicus,  the  discoverer  of  the 
true  system  of  the  universe.  Other  nations  may  possess  more 
•  gold  and  silver,  spices,  silks,  etc.,  but  can  they  compete  with 
us  in  virtue  and  excellence,  in  valor  and  prowess  ?  What 
nation  can  stand  against  the  indomitable  courage  of  out- 
valiant  soldiers?  Many  nations  now  in  our  memory  have 
called  upon  us  to  assist  them  in  time  of  war,  and  when  they 
saw  our  soldiers  in  their  ranks  they  felt  assured  of  victory. 
A  Polish  soldier  fights  to  win,  and  wherever  he  shows  his 
open  face  and  brave  heart  the  enemy  is  forced  to  yield. 

A  THOUGHT. 

For  the  improvement  of  his  mind  it  is  necessary  that  a 
man  should  read. 

ANECDOTES. 

Rey  was  very  witty,  and  one  day  while  he  was  fishing  a 
neighbor  sent  a  boy  to  him  with  his  compliments,  and  an 


REY.  39 

empty  dish  for  some  fish.  Rey  understood  the  drift  and 
remarked  :  "  I  will  return  compliments  for  compliments,  but 
for  the  fish  I  must  have  money,  not  compliments." 

It  so  happened  that  the  poet  was  outwitted  by  an  ignorant 
peasant.  While  traveling  Rey  came  to  a  certain  village,  and 
meeting  a  peasant  the  following  dialogue  took  place  : 

Rey.  Who  holds  possession  of  this  village? 

Peasant.  The  earth  and  fences. 

Rey.  Who  is  master  here? 

Peasant.  He  who  has  the  most  money. 

Rey.  Who  is  the  elder  of  this  place? 

Peasant.  The  oldest  person  in  the  place  is  a  man  who  is 
one  hundred  years  old,  if  that  is  what  you  mean. 

Rey.  I  mean  who  occupies  the  highest  place? 

Peasant.  Oh !    yonder  linden  tree  by  the  church. 

Rey.  How  far  is  it  to  noon? 

Peasant.  It  has  not  passed  here  yet,  so  I  couldn't  tell  you. 

Rey.  It  seems  to  me,  fellow,  that  you  are  rather  impu- 
dent, and  deserve  a  slap  in  your  mouth. 

Peasant.  I  wouldn't  like  that,  as  I  am  no  dog  ;  but  if  you 
would  slap  something  into  my  hand  it  would  be  all  right. 

Rey.  "  As  I  live,"  said  the  poet,  "  I  have  never  met  so  pert 
a  peasant  before." 

Useless  the  yield  of  well  worked  fields 
If  but  to  waste  the  housewife  yields. 

The  poet  tells  us  that  the  above  has  a  twofold  meaning. 
One  is:  no  matter  how  many  victories  we  gain  over  our  ene- 
mies in  the  field,  they  will  be  productive  of  no  good  if  there 
is  discord  and  misrule  at  home.  And  another  is  :  no  matter 
how  hard  a  farmer  works  in  the  field  if  his  wife  is  wasteful, 
idle  and  improvident,  the  farming  operations  must  come  to 
ruin.  Which  is  proven  by  another  proverb: 

A  wasteful  housewife  can  carry  out  with  her  apron  more 
than  the  farmer  can  haul  in  with  a  wagon. 

The  light  of  Holy  Truth  can  never  be  extinguished. 


KOCHANOWSKI. 

Wszystko  sie  dziwnie  plecie 

Na  tym  tu  biednym  swiecie. 

A.  ktoby  chcial  wszystkiego  rozumem  dochodzi6, 

I  zginie,  a  nie  bgdzie  umial  w  to  ugc dzid 

Translation  on  the  last  page  of  KOCHANOWSKI  (*). 


40 


KOCHANOWSKI.  41 


KOCHANOWSKI. 

JOHN  KOCHANOWSKI,  who  attained  great  celebrity  as 
a  poet,  is  the  type  and  true  representative  of  the  Polish 
muse  of  the  sixteenth  century,  for  in  him  were  united 
all  the  rhythmical  elements  of  that  epoch.  From  the 
many  of  his  lyrical  creations  could  be  mentioned  "  So- 
botka,"  or  the  song  of  St.  John's  Eve,  "Threns  (or 
Laments)  on  Ursula's  Death,"  "  Reconciliation,"  "Epi- 
taphs," "Inscriptions,"  "Psalms,"  "Translations  from 
the  Songs  of  Anacreon,"  and  "Chess." 

Kochanowski  having  had  no  specimens  of  Polish 
literature  before  him,  had  himself  to  break  through  the 
first  difficulties  of  rhythmical  art.  He  had  himself  to 
invent  the  form,  language,  and  poetical  style.  In  his 
compositions  as  well  as  his  life,  two  separate  and 
characteristic  epochs  are  perceptible:  one  of  frenzy, 
frivolity,  love  matters  and  pleasure,  the  other  presents 
peace  of  the  soul,  resignation,  and  a  serene,  religious 
feeling. 

He  was  born  in  Siczyn,  in  1530,  in  Great  Poland. 
Desiring  more  information  he  traveled  in  the  south  of 
Europe,  in  order  to  get  a  better  knowledge  of  classical 
antiquity,  and  after  his  return  was  advanced  to  many 
high  offices  of  the  state,  but  he  resigned  them  all  for 
the  sake  of  retirement  and  peace. 

Kochanowski  wrote  also  in  Latin,  and  his  poetry  in 
that  language  was  considered  superior  to  that  of  any  of 
his  contemporaries.  His  poems  are  full  of  beauty,  and 
the  melodious  flow  of  his  verse  is  truly  delightful.- 
Although  his  writings  are  various,  his  reputation  is  prin- 
cipally founded  upon  his  "  Laments  "  (Treny),  in  which 
he  mourns  the  loss  of  his  little  daughter  Ursula,  whom 


42        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

he  represents  as  gifted,  intelligent  and  lovely;  his  com- 
positions overflow  with  expressions  of  passionate  grief. 
Other  gems,  like  the  song  on  "St.  John's  Eve," 
"Nothing Sure  in  this  World,"  etc.,  are  admired  to  the 
present  day.  He  also  wrote  songs  from  Horace  and 
from  Greek  anthology,  translated  Virgil's  'vEneid," 
and  Tasso's  "Jerusalem  Delivered."  His  poem  on 
John  Tarnowski,  the  celebrated  Polish  hero,  is  an  epic 
which  entitles  him  to  the  highest  rank  as  an  author  of 
heroic  poetry.  Kochanowski  also  printed  a  drama, 
"The  Greek  Ambassadors, "  in  hexameter  measure. 
His  prose  works  are  scarcely  less  numerous  than  his 
poetical,  and  are  equally  distinguished  for  their  grace 
and  purity  of  style.  He  died  in  1584. 

THE  GREATNESS  OF  GOD. 

0  God!     What  wilt  Thou  for  Thy  gifts  from  us 
For  Thy  unmeasured  goodness  bounteous  ? 
No  church  contains  Thee,  for  Thou  fillest  space — 
Ocean  and  Earth,  and  Heaven  Thy  dwelling  place. 
We  cannot  give  Thee  gold,  for  gold  is  Thine, 
All  earthly  treasures  bear  Thy  seal  divine. 
Praise  we  can  give  Thee  from  a  grateful  heart, 
Thou  who  above  us  and  beyond  us  art! 
Thou  art  the  master  of  the  world — hast  reared 
The  heavens  with  all  its  starry  orbs  ensphered. 
And  Earth's  foundations,  at  Thy  word  straightway 
Arose  from  nothipgness  in  green  array. 
The  sea,  at  Thy  commands,  despite  its  fret, 
Remains  within  the  bounds  Thy  hand  has  set. 
The  countless  rivers  at  Thy  mandate  flow, 
Thou  bid'st  the  night  and  day  to  come  and  go. 
For  Thee  the  Spring  with  flowers  her  brow  adorn, 
For  Thee  the  Summer  binds  her  ears  of  corn. 


KOCHANOWSKI..  43 

To  Thee  the  Autumn  yields  both  fruit  and  vine, 
And  winter  wreathes  red  holly  for  Thy  shrine. 
The  withered  herbage  'neath  Thy  dew  revives, 
Beneath  Thy  rain  the  parched  up  grain-field  thrives. 
From  out  Thy  hand  all  creatures  take  their  food, 
And  through  Thy  bounty  all  things  are  renewed. 

0  everlasting  God!  be  praised  therefor — 
Grant  us  Thy  grace  and  bounty  evermore; 
Shield  us  while  here  from  every  evil  thing, 
And  fold  us  close  beneath  a  Father's  wing. 

THEEN  I. 

Come  gather  'round  my  dwelling,  tears  and  sighs, 

Eloquent  woes,  and  loud-voiced  miseries  ; 

All  tones  of  sorrow,  anguish,  and  regret, 

Hand-wringing  grief,  and  pangs  the  cheeks  that  wet, — 

Yes!  gather  'round  my  dwelling  all,  and  join 

Your  plaint,  your  passion,  with  these  plaints  of  mine, 

O'er  that  sweet  child  whom  most  unholy  death 

Hath  smitten,  and  in  one  outrageous  breath 

Dispers'd  all  joy! — as  when  a  dragon  springs 

On  Philomela's  nest,  who  sits  and  sings 

Heedless,  till  roused  by  cries  she  flaps  her  wings, 

Flutters  around  her  home,  and  shrieking  tries 

To  arrest  the  spoiler, — idle  strife !     She  flies 

On  wearied  wing  *  in  vain — the  abandoned  one 

Becomes  in  turn  a  prey — I'll  weep  alone, 

Weep  bitterest  tears.     Vain  too,  'tis  vain  I  know, — 

All  is  irreparably  vain  below; — 

We  only  grasp  delusions,  life's  a  cheat 

Of  new  deceit,  but  link'd  to  old  deceit. 

1  know  not  which  is  vainer, — if  to  bear 
And  struggle  with  our  grief  in  mute  despair, 
Or  give  the  anguish  passionate  vent,  as  here. 


44        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

THREN  VII. 

Thou  angel  child!  thy  mournful  dress  before  me 

Throws  bitter  sorrow  o'er  me; 

Thy  little  ornaments  of  joy  and  gladness 

Awake  a  deeper  sadness. 

Never  again  to  wear  your  splendors, — never ; 

All  hope  isJfted  forever! 

A  sleep,  a  hard  and  ii'on  sleep,  hath  bound  thee, 

Dark  night  has  gather'd  round  thee. 

Thy  golden  belt  is  dim;  thy  flower-wreathed  tresses 

Scattered.     Thy  summer  dresses    . 

Which  thy  poor  mother  wrought ;  she  had  array'd  thee 

For  love,  and  we  have  laid  thee 

In  the  tomb's  bridal  bed;  and  now  thy  dower 

Is  a  funeral  flower, — 

A  little  shroud, — a  grave.     Sweet  child !  thy  father 

Some  odorous  hay  shall  gather, 

To  pillow  thy  cold  head.     Death's  dormitory 

Holds  thee,  and  all  thy  glory. 

THREN  IX. 

My  gentle  child!  and  art  thou  vanished?     Thou 
Hast  left  a  dreary  blank  of  sadness  now; 
Our  house  though  full  is  desolate  and  lone 
Since  thy  gay  spirit  and  its  smiles  are  gone! 
We  heard  thy  tongue's  sweet  prattle,  and  thy  song 
Echoed  in  every  corner  all  day  long. 
Thy  mother  never  grieved,  and  anxious  care 
•  Ne'er  rack'd  thy  father's  thoughts  while  thou  wert  there; 
Now  hers — now  mine — thy  childish,  fond  caress — 
The  overflow  of  youth  and  tenderness. 
But  all  is  vacant  now, — all  dull  and  dead; 
All  peace,  and  hope,  and  laughing  joy  are  fled; 
Our  home  possess'd  by  ever  present  grief. 
And  the  tired  spirit  vainly  seeks  relief. 


KOCHANOWSKI.  45 

THREN  X. 

Whither,  0  whither  fled !  in  what  bright  sphere 

Art  thou,  my  Ursula,  a  wanderer? 

Say,  has  thou  wing'd  above  yon  heaVens  thy  flight* 

A  cherub  midst  the  cherubim  of  light? 

Dwell'st  thou  in  Eden's  garden? — or  at  rest 

Eeposing  midst  the  islands  of  the  blest? 

Doth  Charon  waft  thee  o'er  the  gloomy  lake, 

And  bid  thee  waters  of  oblivion  take? 

I  know  not;  but  I  know  my  misery 

Is  all  unknown,  is  all  a  blank  to  thee — 

Thy  gentle  form,  thy  angel  thoughts,  where  now? 

A  nightingale  of  paradise  art  thou; 

Thy  moral  taints  all  purified — if  taint 

Could  stain  the  spirit  of  so  fair  a  saint; 

Thou  art  returned  to  that  same  hallow'd  spot 

Thou  didst  make  holy  when  earth  knew  thee  not. 

But  wheresoe'er  thou  be,  compassionate 

My  misery.     If  this  terrestrial  state 

Be  closed  upon  thee — pity  still — and  be 

A  dream,  a  shadow,  something  yet  to  me! 

THREN  XIII. 

Would  thou  hadst  ne'er  been  born — or  being  born 
Hadst  left  me  not,  sweet  infant!  thus  forlorn; 
I  have  paid  lasting  woe  for  fleeting  bliss — 
A  dark  farewell,  a  speechless  pang  like  this; 
Thou  wert  the  brightest,  fairest  dream  of  sleep; 
And  as  the  miser  cherishes  his  heap 
Of  gold,  I  held  thee;  soon  'twas  fled,  and  nought 
Left  but  the  dreary  vacancies  of  thought, 
That  once  was  blessedness.     And  thou  are  fled. 
Whose  fairy  vision  floated  in  my  head 
And  play'd  around  my  heart.     And  thou  art  gone, 
Gone  with  my  joys;  and  I  am  left  alone; 


46        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Half  of  my  soul  took  flight  with  thee,  the  rest 
Clings  to  thy  broken  shadow  in  my  breast. 

Come  raise  her  tombstone,  sculptor.     Let  there  be 

This  simple  offer  to  her  memory. 

"  Her  father's  love, — his  Ursula  lies  here, 

His  love,  alas!  his  tears,  his  misery. 
Thine  was  a  barbarous  mandate,  death !     The  tear 

I  drop  for  her,  she  should  have  shed  for  me." 

The   following   epitaph   was  written  on  his    elder 
daughter,  who  soon  followed  Ursula  to  the  tomb: 

Thou  Anna!  too,  thy  sister's  track  has  trod, 
And  prematurely  sought  death's  dark  abode; 
Grief  soon  shall  call  your  father  to  his  God, 
To  brighter  worlds  beyond  life's  dismal  road. 

FEOM  CANTO  XIII. 

Sweet  sleep!  sure  man  might  learn  to  die  from  thee, 

Who  dost  unravel  all  death's  mystery; 

Come,  spread  thy  balmy  influence  o'er  my  soul, 

And  let  it  soar,  beyond  the  world's  control, 

Up  to  the  realms  where  morning  has  its  birth, 

Down  to  the  abyss  whence  darkness  wraps  the  earth, 

Where  time  has  piled  its  everlasting  snows, 

Where  parch'd  by  sunbeams  not  a  fountain  flows ; 

Oh,  let  it  count  each  bright  and  wandering  star, 

Or  trace  its  mazy  pilgrimage  afar; 

Sit  in  the  center,  while  each  circling  sphere 

Pours  its  aerial  music  on  the  ear ; 

Drink  of  the  o'erflowing  cup  of  joy  and  peace, 

While  the  tired  body  sleeps  in  weariness; 

No  dreams  to  hang  upon  its  mortal  breath ; 

And  so — undying — let  it  taste  of  death. 


KOCHANOWSKI  47 

TALES  OF  ST.  JOHN'S  EVE;    OR,  SOBOTKA  FIEE.  * 

When  the  first  sunbeams  Cancer  fill 
And  tuneful  nightingale  is  still, 
In  Czarny  /asf  from  older  days 
Sobotka's  fire  is  wont  to  blaze. 

The  neighboring  swain,  the  distant  guest, 
Around  the  sacred  fire  have  prest; 
The  orchards  with  the  joyous  sound 
Of  three  gay  fiddlers  laugh  around. 

On  the  green  turf  they  take  their  seat, 
Where  twice  six  maidens  fair  and  neat, 
Their  ornaments  and  dress  as  one. 
And  girdled  with  the  same  bright  zone, 

And  skill'd  in  dance,  are  all  the  throng; 
And  all  are  skill'd  in  gentle  song; 
To  all  the  call  of  music  rings, 
And  thus  the  foremost  maiden  sings: 

FIRST  MAIDEN. 

Sisters!  the  fire  is  blazing  high, 
And  all  proclaims  festivity; 
Now  join  your  friendly  hands  to  mine, 
And  let  our  .mirthful  voices  join. 

*  In  Poland,  as  in  most  Catholic  countries,  St.  John's  Day  is  a 
time  of  great  festivity,  and  in  the  evening  the  Poles  are  accustomed 
in  their  meadows,  and  particularly  by  the  side  of  rivers,  to  light 
large  fires,  and  to  dance  round  them  singing  ancient  songs.  Koch- 
anowski,  to  whom  the  Black  Forest  belonged  as  an  hereditary  pos- 
session, used  to  gather  the  youths  and  maidens  together  in  order  to 
celebrate  the  festival  in  the  very  manner  in  which  he  has  described 
it.  Niemcewiz  has  published  a  drama  called  "  Kochanowski,"  and 
there  introduced  the  old  poet  with  the  nymphs  singing  around  him. 

f  Czarny  las— the  Black  Forest. 


48        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Sweet  night!  be  fail-  and  tranquil  now, 
No  rain-storm  rage,  no  tempest  blow; — 
Sweet  night!  where  we  may  watch  and  wake 
Until  the  dawn  of  morning  break, 

We  learnt  it  from  our  mothers — they 
From  theirs, — for  centuries  far  aw?y; 
Upon  St.  John's  joy-rousing  night 
Sobotka's  festal  fire  to  light. 

Youths,  reverence  now,  while  ye  behold 
Mementoes  of  the  days  of  old ; 
Let  gleeful  hours  breathe  joy  again, 
And  gladness  revel  now  and  then. 

Their  festal  moments  they  enjoy'd, 
Yet  wisely  all  their  time  employ'd ; 
Each  bore  its  fruits  and  gratitude, 
Pour'd  forth  its  praise  to  heaven  all-good. 

But  now  both  late  and  hard  we  toil, 
Our  festivals  are  but  turmoil: 
Our  gains  are  neither  much  nor  sure, 
And  though  not  pious  we  are  poor. 

Come  sister!  then,  this  holy  night 
Is  with  old  time's  resplendence  bright; 
Blaze!  blaze  anew,  Sobotka's  fire! 
Till  lull'd  by  song  the  night  retire. 

SECOND  MAIDEN. 

This  is  my  fault;  I'll  guilty  plead. 
I  love  to  daijce, — I  love  indeed. 
Come,  tell  me,  neighbors,  does  the  love 
Of  dancing  all  your  spirits  move? 

I  see  your  smiles, — your  smiles  betray 
Your  sympathy  in  what  I  say; 


KOCHANOWSKL  49 

Come,  join  the  round;  why  sit  ye  still? 
And  dance  and  leap  with  hearty  will. 

I  spring,  I  leap,  I  cannot  be 
A  statue;  and  'tis  sweet  to  me 
To  hear  the  beating  tambourine; 
No  mortal  could  keep  still,  I  ween. 

Oh,  thou  art  mighty,  graceful  one, 
That  wakest  music's  thrilling  tone; 
The  village  listens  to  thy  lay, 
It  calls,  we  hear,  and  swift  obey. 

Here,  midst  the  crowd,  each  maid  may  start, 
Who  is  the  empress  of  thy  heart:  — 
Say,  is  she  here?    Oh,  why  inquire? 
She  is  not  here, —  thy  heart's  desire. 

No!  join  our  song;  thy  twinkling  feet 
Some  other  twinkling  one's  may  meet; 
And  here,  amidst  our  joyous  band, 
Some  maid  may  yet  invite  thy  hand. 

To  man,  to  man  alone,  has  heaven 
The  privilege  of  laughter  given; 
And  this,  and  this  alone,  has  he 
In  proof  of  noble  ancestry. 

Oh,  it  were  foolish, —  it  were  vain, 
So  high  a  privilege  to  disdain; 
And  let  the  wretch  go  whine  and  weep 
Who  mirth 's  gay  revel  dares  rot  keep. 

Laugh  on !  laugh  on !  and  though  at  nought, 
Still  laughter  is  a  pleasant  thought: 
Laugh  at  my  folly,  or  my  sense ; 
Laugh  on !  laugh  on !  on  some  pretense. 
3 


50        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

I  ,am  not  sad ;  I  can't  be  sad. 

Be,  maidens  all,  like  me, —  be  glad; 

For  sorrow  wrinkles  o'er  the  brow 

Ere  time  tells  when,  or  thought  knows  how. 

But  health  and  youth  delight  to  stay 
Where  youth  is  glad  and  age  is  gay; 
Where  years  may  hasten  as  they  will, 
And  eld  is  in  its  boyhood  still. 

Come  follow,  circle  —  all  around, 
Let  the  light  song  of  joy  rebound; 
And  maiden  sing!  be  ready, —  thine 
The  task  to  waken  notes  like  mine. 


FOURTH  MAIDEN. 

The  fairest  flow'rets  of  the  mead 
I  wreathe  in  garlands  for  thy  head: 
For  thee,  for  none  but  thee,  who  art 
The  very  empress  of  my  heart. 

Oh,  place  upon  thy  graceful  brow 
The  blooming  wreath  I  offer  now ; 
So  let  me  in  thy  bosom  rest 
As  thou  dost  well  within  my  breast. 

There's  not  a  moment  but  doth  bring 
Thy  memory  upon  its  wing; 
Sleep  cannot  drive  thy  thoughts  from  me, 
For  when  I  sleep  I  dream  of  thee. 

And  may  I  hope  thou  dost  not  deem 
Me  worthless  of  thy  heart's  esteem; 
That  thou  wilt  hear  my  passion's  tone 
And  recompense  it  with  thine  own? 


KOCHANOWSKI.  51 

But  oh,  my  tongue  cannot  conceal 

The  thoughts,  the  fears,  the  doubts  I  feel, 

That  other  longing  eyes  may  stray 

O'er  charms  so  beautiful,  so  gay.  • 

O  maiden!  if  those  charms  are  mine, 
Veil,  veil,  from  all  those  charms  of  thine; 
For  it  were  madness  should  they  move 
Other  impassioned  youths  to  love. 

All  other  ills  I'll  calmly  share, — 

Injury  and  insult  I  can  bear; 

But  not  to  see  another  dwell 

In  thine  eyes'  sunshine, —  that  were  hell. 

TWELFTH  MAIDEN. 

Sweet  village!  peace  and  joy's  retreat! 

Oh,  who  shall  tune  thy  praise  of  song? 
Oh,  who  shall  wake  a  music  meet 

Thy  smiles,  thy  pleasures  to  prolong ! 

Bliss  dwells  within  thy  solitude, 

Which  selfish  avarice  never  stains;* 
Where  thought  and  habit  make  us  good, 

And  sweet  contentment  gilds  our  gains. 

Let  others  seek  a  dazzling  court, 

Where  treachery  poisons  eye  and  ear; 

Or  to  the  troubled  sea  resort, 

With  death  and  danger  ever  near. 

• 
Let  others  sell  their  tongues  for  hire, 

With  falsehood  and  with  trick  delude; 
Or  fame  or  victory's  wreath  acquire 
By  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  blood. 

*  Usury  was  considered  a  most  degrading  vice  among  the  old 
Slavonians. 


52        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

The  ploughman  tills  the  fertile  field, 

His  children  bless  his  daily  care; 
While  the  rich  fruits  his  labors  yield, 

His  well-contented  household  share. 

For  him  the  bee  its  honey  stocks, 

For  him  its  gifts  the  orchard  holds; 
For  him  are  shorn  the  fleecy  flocks; 

For  him  the  lambkins  fill  the  folds. 

He  gathers  from  the  generous  meads 

Their  offering  to  his  annual  store, 
And  winter  with  her  snow-storms  leads 

Repose  and  pleasure  to  his  door. 

Around  the  fire  they  tell  their  tales, 

The  songs  are  sung  with  smiles  and  glee; 

The  lively  dance  *  again  prevails, 
The  cenar  and  the  goniony.  f 

At  twilight's  hour  the  swains  repair 

To  where  the  crafty  foxes  hie ; 
The  hare,  the  thoughtless  fowls  they  snare, 

And  aye!  return  with  full  supply. 

Or  in  the  stream  the  baited  hook, 

The  light  and  treacherous  net  they  fling; 

While  near  the  gently  echoing  brook 
The  warblers  of  the  forest  sing. 

The  cattle  seek  the  watery  mead, 

The  shepherd  sits  in  solitude, 
While  to  his  gay  and  rustic  reed 

Dance  all  the  nymphs  that  grace  the  wood. 

*  Bowing  dance.    The  old  Polonaise,  something  like  a  minuet. 

f  Amusements  of  the  Poles.  The  Cenar  perhaps  may  be  trans- 
lated Blind  Harry,  which  is  now  called  in  Poland  Slepa  Babka,  and 
in  Lithuania  Zmurki.  Ooniony  may  be  rendered  Hide  and  Seek. 
The  whole  of  this  poein  is  popular  throughout  Poland. 


KOCHANOWSKI.  53 

At  home  the  housewife's  busy  hands 

The  evening's  frugal  meal  provide: 
'Tis  all  the  produce  of  her  lands; 

No  wish  is  breathed  for  aught  beside. 

She  counts  the  herds;  she  knows  the  sheep 
When  from  the  pasture  meads  they  come; 

Her  busy  eyes  can  never  sleep; 

Abroad  they  watch, —  direct  at  home. 

The  little  children  reverent  bow 

And  ask  an  aged  grandsire's  love, 
Who  tenderly  instructs  them  how 

In  peace  and  virtue's  path  to  move. 

So  rolls  the  day, —  but  many  a  sun 

Would  sink  his  chariot  in  the  sea, 
Were  I  to  end  the  tale  begun 

Of  rural  joy  and  revely. 

EXCERPTS. 

However  poor  and  scanty  be  your  fare, 
Forsake  not  smiling  hope  for  deep  despair. 
That  sets  to-day  the  last  sun  do  not  fear, 
A  brighter  day  to-morrow  may  appear. 

The  nightingale  sings  on  the  tree,  although 

Her  heart  is  aching,  — full  of  tender  woe ; 

'Tis  often  thus  with  man,  0  Lord !  he  cheers 

His  sinking  heart  with  hope  and  sings  through  tears. 

(*)  All  things  in  this  poor  world  of  ours,  'tis  true, 
Are  tangled  mysteries  without  a  clue; 
And  he,  however  wise,  who  attempts  to  solve  them  will 
Encounter  darker,  deeper,  stranger  mysteries  still. 

*  Translation  of  the  four  lines  under  the  portrait  of  KOCHANOWSKI. 


54        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


KLONOWICZ. 

FABIAN  SEBASTIAN  KLONOWICZ  (Acernus)  was  per- 
haps the  greatest  Polish  satirist  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. He  united  Kochanowski's  feeling  with  Key's 
satiric  spirit,  but  was  superior  to  both  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  subject-matter.  The  most  noted  of  his  literary 
productions  are  "Memoirs  of  Polish  Kings  and  Princes 
in  Epigrams,"  "  Judas's  Bags;  or,  The  Acquisition  of 
Wealth  Dishonestly,"  "  Sepulchral  Complaints  on  the 
Death  of  John  Kochanowski, "  "Flis;  or,  The  Floating 
of  Vessels  Down  the  River  Vistula,"  "The  Conflagra- 
tion, and  the  Exhortation  To  Quench  the  Same;  or, 
the  Prophecy  as  to  the  Downfall  of  the  Turkish 
Power." 

A  disinterested  lover  of  truth,  Klonowicz  boldly  at- 
tacked misdeeds  without  regard  to  persons  or  their 
social  connections.  Persecution  did  not  aifect  his 
moral  powers  nor  stifle  his  inclination  to  satirize,  on  the 
contrary,  it  only  incited  him  the  more  and  strength- 
ened his  spirit  of  criticism.  Strong  in  didactic  poetry, 
he  possessed  no  great  talent  for  the  lyrics.  In  his 
didactics  he  exhibits  superiority  of  reason  over  imagi- 
nation and  feeling;  with  him,  thought  was  superior  to 
the  manner  of  expression. 

In  his  "  Flis,"  that  is,  watermen  floating  boats  down 
the  Vistula,  we  perceive  altogether  a  different  phase  of 
this  poet's  writing.  The  subject  being  out  of  the  com- 
mon track  of  his  former  experiences,  his  mind  becomes 
more  easy  and  lively,  and  his  poetical  figures  more  pict- 
uresque. He  describes  his  impressions  and  his  feelings 
caused  by  witnessing  this  novel  sight,  and  unlike  his 
former  compositions  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  satire  in 


KLONOWICZ.  55 

the  whole  poem.  It  is  supposed  that  there  is  not  a 
poem  in  the  Polish  language,  written  during  the  reign 
of  Sigismunds,  which  preserves  the  national  features 
and  the  coloring  stronger  than  the  "  Flis." 

u  The  Bags  of  Judases"  is  a  peculiar  satire,  paint- 
ing with  an  artistic  brush  different  sorts  of  people, 
who  by  usurious  and  dishonest  practices,  their  power, 
artfulness,  flattery  and  stratagems,  and  by  assumed 
magnanimity  deceive  and  cheat  the  weaker  part  of 
humanity. 

Zealous  and  ardent  in  the  defense  of  what  was  good 
and  noble,  he  boldly  attacked  misrule  and  abuse  of 
power  of  the  officials,  bribery  and  avaricious  cupidity 
of  the  high  dignitaries;  in  fact  he  pursued  with  his  sat- 
ires all  who  were  defrauding  the  republic. 

His  ' '  Complaints  "  are  only  imitations  of  Kocha- 
nowski's  Threns  on  the  death  of  his  daughter  Ursula, 
with  this  difference,  Kochanowski's  complaints  flowed 
from  an  aching  heart  overflowing  with  grief  that  only 
a  father  can  feel,  but  Klonowicz  wrote  them  straight 
along,  preserving  the  apparent  coolness;  for  that  rea- 
son his  complaints  do  not  touch  the  feeling  nor  call  forth 
even  a  sigh — because  sighs  did  not  produce  them,  nor 
were  they  bedewed  with  tears. 

Klonowicz  was  born  in  1551,  in  Great  Poland,  in  a 
village  called  Sulmierzyce,  in  the  palatinate  of  Kalish, 
and  received  his  education  in  the  Academy  of  Cracow, 
where  he  was  made  doctor  of  philosophy.  He  traveled 
in  Hungary  and  Bohemia,  Dantzig  and  Lemberg,  where 
he  spent  four  years.  In  1580  he  went  to  the  city  of 
Lublin,  where  he  was  a  counsellor  and  judge  of  Jewish 
affairs,  and  finally  became  the  mayor.  He  also  held 
an  office  at  Isary,  the  property  of  Benedictine  monks, 
wherein  sprung  a  great  friendship  between  the 


56        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

abbot  and  afterward  a  bishop  of  Kijew,  Wereszczyn- 
ski,  and  it  is  to  this  intimacy  that  we  are  indebted  for 
the  production  of  his  "Flis."  Having  written  against 
the  Jesuits  he  was  bitterly  persecuted  by  them  and 
somewhat  apostatized  from  the  faith.  Then  again  he 
incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  inferior  nobility,  his 
former  companions,  and  the  Jews.  As  if  to  complete 
his  misfortunes  he  was  constantly  harassed  by  his 
wasteful  and  wayward  wife,  who  poisoned  his  life  and 
brought  him  to  abject  poverty.  He  died  in  an  hospital 
in  1608. 

His  works  were  published  in  Cracow,  Leipsic,  and 
Chelmno.  The  latest  editions  are  those  of  Turowski, 
1858,  and  Wentzlewski,  1861. 

MERITS  OP    POLAND. 

Poland  is  rich  in  green  and  fertile  lands 
That  in  God's  bosom,  as  it  were,  seem  thrown, 
What  cares  the  Pole  for  ocean  or  its  strands? 
Content,  he  ploughs  his  own. 

Here  Ceres,  harvest  goddess,  wandered  by 
After  she  left  her  own  Sicilian  plain, 
Here  fields  of  rye  abound,  and  bastion  high 
Loom  up  the  stacks  of  grain. 

In  Poland,  high,  commodious  barns  arise, 
With  harvest  bounty  amply  filled  and  stored, 
Here,  for  the  jolly  peasant  will  suffice 
Of  rye,  a  goodly  hoard ! 

Let  who  will  praise  the  fertile  Asian  fields, 
The  yellow  maize  of  Egypt  and  the  Nile, 
Upon  our  shore  the  oat  abundance  yields, 
For  many  a  mile  and  mile. 


KLONOWICZ.  57 

Game  is  abundant,  cattle  horned  abound, 
Fat  oxen,  horses,  sheep  with  lengthy  coat, 
And  heifers  graze  within  the  meadows  'round, 
Beside  the  frisky  goat ! 

From  out  his  herds  the  farmer  gets  his  teams, 
Makes  clothing  for  himself,  and  servants,  too, 
And  of  fresh  meat,  and  milk-meat  as  it  seems, 
There  is  no  end  thereto. 

Then,  who  could  count  the  flocks  of  cackling  geese, 
The  greedy  ducks  the  swan  whose  whiteness  charms, 
The  chickens,  too,  whose  brood  each  day  increase, 
And  travel  'round  the  farms. 

Of  dishes  rich  a  great  variety 
We  get,  and  dainty  food  the  dovecot  gives, 
How  pleasant  'tis  the  bacon  flitch  to  see 
Suspended  'neath  the  eaves! 

Then,  too,  the  things  we  gather  in  the  wood, 
God's  bounty  to  the  open-handed  Pole, 
He  who  desires  to  use  these  gifts  of  good 
Are  welcome  to  the  dole. 

Through  field  and  wood  flit  herds  of  graceful  deer, 
On  trees  the  birds  sing  out  their  countless  lives, 
And  the  industrious  bee  his  honey'd  cheer 
Bears  homeward  to  the  hives. 

As  to  the  fish,  a  million  of  them  speed 
Through  pond  and  lake  and  river  seaward  bound, 
Nor  lack  the  Poles  for  anything  they  need, 
With  much  abundance  crowned. 

Hence,  T  know  not  why  you  should  grasp  for  more 
My  brother  Pole,  with  such  productive  soil, — 
Why  should  you  seek  to  gather  to  your  store 
Of  foreign  lands  the  spoil? 


58        POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  POLAND. 


MIASKOWSKI. 

KASPAE  MIASKOWSKI,  a  flowery  poetical  writer. 
Although  his  style  is  somewhat  hard  and  less  correct 
than  that  of  some  of  his  contemporaries,  he  excels 
them  in  bold  poetic  flights.  The  most,  eminent  of  his 
compositions  are:  "  The  Slavonian  Hercules,"  "  The 
Pilgrim  of  Easter-Day,"  "Penitential  Elegy,"  "Duma 
on  the  Death  of  John  Zamoyski,"  "  Invitation  to  Sor- 
row," etc.  He  sings  of  wars  and  warriors,  and  com- 
plains of  misrule  of  the  country,  impunity  and  pleas- 
ures; but  his  religious  songs  are  superior  to  his  worldly 
ones,  yet  he  exhibits  more  ardor  than  simplicity  and 
gracefulness.  His  religious  compositions  are  perme- 
ated with  a  true  and  sincere  spirit  of  piety.  As  to  his 
language,  it  is  strong  and  pithy;  but  occasionally  he 
is  misty  and  expresses  himself  in  an  unusual  way. 

Miaskowski  was  born  in  1549  in  Great  Poland.  He 
lived  in  close  friendship  with  G^bicki,  bishop  of 
Kujawy,  Opalinski,  bishop  of  Posen,  and  Herburt,  the 
proprietor  of  Dobromil.  He  died  in  1622. 

His  writings  entitled  "  Collection  of  Rhymes  "  were 
published  in  Cracow  in  1612,  in  Posen  1622,  and  the 
latest  in  Posen  1855  and  in  1861. 

DIALOGUE    BETWEEN    DEATH   AND   A   YOUNG' 
MAIDEN. 

Young  M.   0  Death!   why  dost  thou  whet  thy  scythe  anew? 
Death.          To  cut  the  flower  that  blithely  drinks  the  dew. 
Young  M.   Why  wilt  thou  cut  it  now  so  ruthlessly, 

Nor  wait  awhile  its  perfect  charm  to  see? 
Death.          Such  early  flowers  most  fragrant  are  and  sweet, 

To  me  most  grateful  for  my  chaplet  meet. 


MIASKOWSKI. 


59 


Young  M.    Know'st  thou  the  sickle  reaps  but -ripened  grain? 

Death.          After  the  storm  green  herbage  on  the  plain 
Is  likewise  leveled. 

Young  M.    Not  magnanimous 

Is  it  to  fell  a  tender  blossom  thus. 

Death.          It  were  transgression  did  I  leave  the  one 

That  God  has  called  for ;  nay,  it  must  be  done. 

Young  M.    The  pangs  of  death  youth  can  but  ill  endure. 

Death.          But  the  more  innocent  youth  is,  and  pure, 
Swift  as  the  arrow  flying  to  the  mark 
Will  it  be  wafted  up  beyond  the  dark. 

Young  M.    But  I  have  scarce  begun  to  pay  the  debt 
Unto  my  parents  for  their  kindness  yet, 
Because  my  years  have  been  so  very  few; 
Let  me  remaining  love  and  serve  them  too,1 
Nor  leave  them  in  their  sorrow  mourning  me. 

Death.          That  is  not  much  for  them, —  but  as  for  thee, 

Thou  wilt  the  better  reach  them  through  thy  love 
When  in  God's  presence  thou  shalt  kneel  above 
With  hands  uplifted  in  unceasing  prayer 
Before  the  throne,  and  ask  for  them  His  care, 
That  they  may  close  their  eyes  in  peace  at  last, 
Untroubled  by  the  shadows  I  cast. 

Young  M.   If  so,  0  Death !  I  put  away  my  fear, 

My  hope  'grows  stronger  and  my  sight  more  clear. 

Death.          Then  I  will  pause  no  more, —  to  Paradise" 

This  stroke  shall  send  thee !  thus  the  body  dies, 
But  the  pure  soul  with  living  faith  astir 
Is  wafted  heavenward,  there  to  minister. 


WHO  IS  A  TRUE  SAILOR? 

He  is  not  a  sailor  true  who  sails 
Over  tranquil  waters  with  favoring  gales; 
But  he  who  can  skillfully  storms  outride 
Is  the  conqueror  true  with  courage  tried. 


60        POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  POLAND. 


SZYMONOWICZ. 

SIMON  SZYMONOWICZ  was  the  first  Polish  poet  who 
wrote  pastorals  in  his  native  tongue.  Not  following 
the  poetic  bend  of  Kochanowski  he  chose  his  own  origi- 
nal way,  and  wrote  upward  of  twenty  pastoral  poems. 
He  did  not  imitate  Yirgil,  Spanish,  or  the  poets  of 
southern  France,  but  took  as  his  specimen  Theocritus, 
and  at  the  same  time  continuing  to  fall  in  his  own  way 
he  created  an  original  manner  of  his  own.  Szymono- 
wicz  composed  purely  national  pastorals,  full  of  truth 
and  harmony.  After  Theocritus  he  may  be  considered 
as  one  of  the  greatest  writers  of  idyllics.  Sometimes 
he  exceeds  even  Yirgil.  He  understood  very  well  that 
in  order  to  create  an  original  pastoral  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  approach  the  national  songs.  But  he  did 
not  exactly  make  them  lyrical ;  on  the  contrary,  he  bent 
them  down  more  to  the  dramatic  form.  As  to  his  ver- 
sification it  has  a  great  resemblance  to  the  versification 
of  to-day.  He  turns  easily  from  line  to  line,  but  cares 
not  for  the  richness  in  rhyme. 

Szymonowicz  deserves  all  the  praise  for  the  sweet- 
ness of  language  and  great  facility  of  expression.  He 
mixes  in  the  conversation  of  Polish  shepherds  the  songs 
of  Theocritus,  and  in  a  curious  way  painting  the  customs 
of  his  age  and  country  mixes  the  Greek  mythology. 
This  fault  will  show  itself  less  striking  when  we  remem- 
ber that  many  learned  Poles  in  those  days  were  well 
acquainted  with  ancient  literature,  and  it  was  for  them 
Szymonowicz  mostly  sung. 

Szymonowicz  was  born  in  1557,  at  Lemberg,  and 
was  educated  at  the  Academy  of  Cracow.  He  traveled 
much,  and  visited  Rome.  King  Stephen  crowned  him 


SZYMONOWICZ.  61 

with  a  poetic  wreath.  He  afterward  became  the  secre- 
tary of  Chancellor  Zamoyski,  who  conferred  upon 
him  the  estate  of  Czernce,  near  the  city  of  Zamos<5,  and 
when  dying  he  intrusted  the  education  of  his  son 
Thomas  to  him.  Pope  Clement  VIII  sent  him  in  1593 
a  wreath,  and  Sigismund  III  ennobled  him,  and  made 
him  poet  laureate.  He  died  in  1629. 

Szymonowicz  published  several  religious  dramas,  of 
which  ' '  Joseph  the  Chaste  "  obtained  the  most  celebrity. 

SIELANKA*   I.    (PASTORAL.) 

PASTORAL  ECLOGUE. 

"  Kozy,  ucieszne  kozy,  ma  trzodo  jedyna! " 

DAPHNIS. 

Goats  of  my  flock,  my  sole  possessions  come, 

'Mid  meadows,  nut  tree,  brushwood  make  your  home; 

Eat  the  green  leaves,  the  tender  sprouts,  and  here 

By  the  still  waters  I'll  repose  me  near, 

And  lull  to  rest  my  grief  by  sleep,  or  song ; 

My  Phyllis  has  disturb'd  the  calming  throng 

Of  gentle  thoughts.     0  cruel!  whatsoe'er 

Fate  rules,  the  heart  must  feed  on  and  must  bear. 

Thou  hast  forgotten  all,  my  broken  joy, 

My  soul's  distraction,  and  the  sharp  annoy 

Of  a  corroding  chain;  desire  intense, 

Faith-plighted,  passionate  love  and  confidence. 

For  thee  my  orchards  bore  their  fruits:  I  bid 

My  folds  supply  the  milk,  and  every  kid 

And  every  snowy  lamb  was  thine.     For  thee 

I  track'd  through  the  woods  the  honey-bearing  bee. 

And  I  was  wholly  thine.     My  ceaseless  lays 

Waked  thousand  shepherds'  voices  in  thy  praise. 

*  Derived  from  sielo  (village). 


62        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

For  them  wert  erst  unknown,  or  unesteem'd; 

They  called  thee  a  mean  maiden,  and  they  deein'd 

Thy  bright  eyes  a  black  gypsy's ;  but  my  lyre 

Gave  glory  to  thy  stately  footsteps,  fire 

To  thy  shrewd  glances ;  thou  wert  tall  and  straight 

As  the  unchanging  fir-tree,  and  thy  gait 

Became  majestic;  roses  and  snow-milk 

Painted  thy  cheeks;  thy  hair  was  softest  silk,    ' 

Coral  thy  lips,  and  pearls  thy  teeth :  applause 

Everywhere  greeted  thee; — and  I  the  cause — 

I  tuned  thy  charms  to  song:  and  my  reward 

Is  thy  contempt,  and  the  enamored  bard 

Is  left  to  misery.     While  the  noontide  ray 

Gilds  with  its  brightness  all  the  charms  of  day, 

While  in  the  woodlands  birds  and  flocks  repose, 

And  from  its  toils  the  weary  heifer  goes, 

While  the  green  lizards  'round  their  dwellings  green 

Play  joyous,  I  am  left  to  mourn  unseen 

O'er  shattered  hopes  and  shipwreck'd  thoughts.     I  try 

To  appease  their  busy  tumult  fruitlessly. 

The  lion  hunts  the  wolf — the  wolf  pursues 

The  goat — the  goat  is  pleased  among  the  dews 

Of  the  red  heath :  my  sorrow  clings  to  thee ; — 

All  have  their  passions  and  pursuits; — none  free 

From  the  indwelling  worm  of  grief.     I  caught 

A  pair  of  lovely  deer,  to  whom  I  taught 

Obedience;  from  my  goats  they  drank  their  food; 

I  weaned  them  from  their  savage  solitude; 

And  many  a  maiden  covets  them ; — but  thou 

Think'st  all  my  offerings  poor  and  worthless  now. 

Hark!  for  the  woods  are  full  of  music!     See 

O'er  the  gay  fields  the  flocks  sport  joyously! 

How  blest  we  here  might  dwell;  how  calmly  go 

To  the  cold  boundary  of  life's  toils  below. 

Wouldst  thou  but  smile  upon  my  humble  cot, 

And  from  thy  gentle  bosom  chase  me  not. 


SZYMONOWICZ.  63 

Here  the  soft  mosses  o'er  the  grottoes  grow, 

And  shades  and  woods  repose,  and  streamlets  flow 

O'er  stony  beds;  the  poplars  tall,  the  wide 

And  ample  lindens;  elms  and  oaks,  the  pride 

Of  centuries.     But  without  thy  soothing  voice 

N<o  streams  harmonious  roll,  no  woods  rejoice, 

No  charms  are  charming.     Wherefore  should  I  be 

So  worthless,  so  indifferent,  love,  to  thee? 

I  look'd  into  the  glassy  stream,  I  sought 

Some  hidden  cause  of  thy  ungenerous  thought, 

None  could  I  find.     My  sheep  are  in  the  field, 

They  feed,  they  prosper;  and  my  goat  flocks  yield 

Annual  increase.     I  have  a  rich  supply 

Of  milk,  and  I  am  skill'd  in  poetry 

And  the  sweet  lyre,  even  like  that  swain  of  old, 

Amphion,  watching  o'er  his  ravish'd  fold 

And  waking  song;  while  at  his  wild  harp's  sound 

The  woods  and  all  their  tenants  danced  around. 

It  matters  not;  my  song  is  vain  and  vain 

All  my  bewailing:  I  must  bear  the  pain 

Unmurmuring,  for  my  murmurs  are  to  thee 

A  selfish  triumph,  and  thy  cruelty 

Nothing  can  soften. ,  Dost  thou  scorn  me?     Who 

Possesses  that  false  heart  that  once  was  true? 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on!     A  lion's  whelp  art  thou, 

And  I  a  silly  lamb.     My  ice-cold  brow 

The  grave's  dull  earth  shall  soon  be  crumbled  over, 

And  this  shall  be  my  epitaph  of  woe: — 

"  The  cruel  Phyllis  has  destroy'd  her  lover." 


64  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

SIELANKA   XIV. 

CZARY  (WITCHCRAFT). 

THE  JEALOUS  WIFE. 

Three  nights  have  pass'd  since  he  left  me  here, 

And  something  is  amiss,  I  fear; 

Yes,  surely  something  is  amiss; 

And  what  he  does,  and  where  he  is, 

I  can't  divine;  and  who  can  bear 

The  throb  of  doubt  and  woe  like  this! 

Thestyli,  bring  for  magic's  rites 
The  awful  tools — to-night,  to-night 

My  heart  shall  summon  witchcraft's  sprites, 
And  revel  in  the  wild  delight. 

Why  did  he  marry,  thus  to  leave  me? 

He  well  may  grieve,  who  thus  could  grieve  me. 

I'll  pour  perdition  on  the  maid 

Who  first  his  faithless  passion  sway'd: 

She  wounded  me,  it  shall  return, 

Canker'd  within  her  heart  to  burn. 

Moon!  I  conjure  thee — thou  art  pure; 

Yet  when  thou  know'st  my  wrongs,  thy  eyes, 
Pitying  the  miseries  I  endure, 

Will  show  the  midnight's  mysteries 
To  me  the  wretched !  I  was  chaste 

And  lovely;  from  my  parent's  home 
He  bore  me,  in  his  scorn  to  waste 

Affection's  blush  and  passion's  bloom ; 
A  wife  unstained,  a  faithful  mate, 
He  leaves  me  to  be  desolate. 

Pledged  faith!     Avenge,  avenge  me  now! 
Thou  God  above !  look  down  below ! 
He  sees  thee  not,  he  knows  thee  not, 


SZYMONOWICZ.  65 

Be  shame  and  wretchedness  his  lot ! 
His  heart  is  scared — his  thoughts  rebel— 
Now  scathe  him  with  the  fires  of  hell! 
"Tis  an  unholy  task,  I  know; 
But  grief  is  deaf — it  must  be  so : 
I  know  damnation's  fiends  await 
Those  who  would  tear  the  veils  of  fate. 
It  must  be  so,  I  cannot  say, — 
Come  tardy  Thestyli,  obey! 

Pour  white  millet  on  the  pan, 

Shake  it  o'er  the  glowing  fire 
Fan  the  blazing  caldron',  fan, — 

Stronger  the  flame  must  burn,  and  higher. 

Husband  turn,  to  thy  wife's  desire: 
Mighty  magic,  conduct  him  home ; — 
My  grief  is  mad, — come,  husband,  come! 

He  burns  my  heart; — on  his  head  I  burn 
The  crumbled  leaves  of  the  blister  tree; 

And  as  the  leaves  to  ashes  turn, 
So  let  his  heart  burn  scorchingly. 

Mighty  magic!  conduct  him  home; — 

My  grief  is  mad, — come,  husband,  come! 

I  melt  the  Wax  in  the  furnace  heat: — 

As  the  earth  is  softened  by  summer's  rain. 

So  let  him  dissolve  in  a  burning  sweat, 
And  pass  into  dew  for  his  cold  disdain. 

Mighty  magic !  conduct  him  home ; — 

My  grief  is  mad, — come,  husband,  come! 

I  turn  the  spindle: — I  fain  would  turn 
His  faithless  heart.     No  rest  shall  light 

On  his  anxious  soul ;  and  visions  stern 
Shall  be  his  by  day,  and  dreams  by  night. 
5 


66        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Mighty  magic!  conduct  him  home; — 
My  grief  is  mad, — come,  husband,  come! 

My  head-dress  in  three-fold  knots  I  tie, 
And  my  hair  in  tresses;  so  bind  his  soul; 

Let  them  tangle;  until  his  heart  shall  fly 
From  unhallow'd  passion's  fierce  control. 

Mighty  magic!  conduct  him  home; — 

My  grief  is  mad, — come,  husband,  come ! 

Place  in  the  vessel  a  midnight  bat, 

Let  it  burn,  let  it  burn,  and  the  magic  spe 

Shall  bear  him  to  torments  worse  than  that, 
Oh,  would  I  could  add  the  fire  of  hell ! 

Mighty  magic!  conduct  him  home;— 

My  grief  is  mad, — come,  husband,  come ! 

These  poisonous  weeds  to  a  loathsome  toad 
Transformed  an  old  woman.     Away,  away 

Through  the  air  on  a  fiery  pole  she  rode : — 
Burn — burn — he  cannot  resist  their  sway. 

Mighty  magic!  conduct  him  home; — 

My  grief  is  mad, — come,  husband,  come  i 

I  have  a  'kerchief,  which  erst  in  dance, 
When  I  was  a  maid,  he  threw  at  me, 

While  wet  with  the  dew  of  his  countenance: — 
As  his  sweat,  the  foam  of  his  mouth  shall  be. 

Mighty  magic!  conduct  him  home; — 

My  grief  is  mad, — come,  husband,  come ! 

Grits  boil  in  this  apron — boil!     It  boils! 

No  fire  is  there !  the  spell  succeeds. 
He  comes!  he  comes!  to  reward  my  tons; 

I  hear  the  barking  hounds  through  the  reeds. 
I  hear  him  knock.     The  boilings  cease, 


SZYMONOWICZ.  67 

The  howling  dogs  are  now  at  peace. 
'Tis  he!  'tis  he!  they  knew  him  well, 
They  knew  him  by  their  eager  smell. 
So  punish'd,  he  will,  perhaps,  improve, 
But  shall  I  welcome  him  with  love, 
Or  wait  till  he  has  rested?     He 
Is  panting  hard — 'twas  marvelously 
Well  done, — for  force  must  act  on  will, 
Where  will  rebels.     Fire,  brighten  still! 
Oh,  aid  me,  mighty  craft!  till  grief 
In  dark  revenge  obtain  relief. 

Burn,  tendons!  tell  me  when  they  smoke: — 

So  may  the  accursed  members  shrivel 
(As  when  my  heart  in  anguish  broke) 

Of  that  seducing  fiend  of  evil. 
Kevenge,  revenge,  dark  craft!  till  grief 
In  ample  vengeance  find  relief. 

Now  strip  these  rags  at  my  behest, 

Her  corpse  through  dirt  let  hangman  draw. 

Let  fiery  pincers  tear  her  breast, 
And  to  the  hounds  her  body  throw. 

So  aid  me,  mighty  craft!  till  grief 

In  dark  revenge  obtain  relief. 

Thou  owl!  that  hootest  through  the  wood, 

In  vain  thou  shalt  no  longer  hoot, — 
Before,  behind,  in  solitude, 

And  through  the  world  screech  '  Prostitute ! ' 
So  aid  me,  mighty  craft !  till  grief 
In  full  revenge  obtain  relief. 

Spit  thrice,  and  as  the  spittle  falls, 

Curse  her ;  and  let  her  face  be  thick 
With  plague  spots, — sores,  and  wounds  and  galls 

Pollute  her:  let  her  foul  hands  pick 


68        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

The  living  worms  that  o'er  her  creep; — 
Then  rot  upon  pollution's  heap. 

My  ears  with  music  ring.     I  start! 

0  thou  hast  triumph'd,  mighty  art! 
Vengeance  upon  her  head  descend ! 

Be  welcome — welcome  now  my  friend! 
But  he  is  come — is  come  at  last. 
He  came  half-booted — came  in  haste. 

1  pity — but  forgive.     Indeed 

The  heart  is  glad  he  caused  to  bleed. 

EPIGRAMS. 

THE  HARE. 

The  hounds  pursue  me  in  their  cruel  course ; — 
I  turn'd;  I  saw  the  huntsman  from  his  horse 
Fall  death-struck  to  the  ground.     So  perish  all 
Who  plot,  or  see  unmoved  another's  fall. 

THE  WOLF. 

Ye  drag  me  through  the  village,  peasants !     Good ! 
I  have  a  thousand  brothers  in  the  wood: — 
Yes !  yes !  insult  the  dead !     My  life  you  rive, 
But  thousands  to  avenge  me  are  alive. 

THE  OLD  COCK. 

In  my  young  days  full  many  a  fight  I  won; 
But  I  am  old,  and  all  my  glory's  gone. 
The  young  subdue  me,  and  the  vulture's  throat 
Is  now  my  tomb.     I  can  avenge  it  not. 


ZIMOEOWICZ.  69 


ZIMOROWICZ. 

SIMEON  ZIMOKOWICZ  was  born  at  Lemberg  (Leopol) 
in  1604.  None  of  his  poetical  compositions  were 
printed  during  his  lifetime.  Being  touched  by  symp- 
toms of  incipient  consumption  he  hurried  in  writing 
up  the  "  Roxolanki  " — that  is  to  say  the  Russian 
maidens  present  at  the  wedding  of  his  brother  Bar- 
tholomew. These  interesting  compositions,  although 
original,  are  partly  imitations  of  Horace  and  Anacreon; 
they  show  a  strong  pen  and  elicit  much  poetical  beauty. 
He  also  wrote  many  songs,  but  all  his  compositions  are 
permeated  with  youthfulness.  His  selection  of  sub- 
jects and  poetical  colors  shows  a  young  man  who  feels 
the  worth  and  charms  of  life.  He  had  a  great  admira- 
tion for  Szymonowicz  and  imitated  him,  but  possessed 
more  poetical  force.  He  also  translated  Moschus. 

Zimorowicz  died  very  young, —  in  his  twenty-fifth 
year  —  and  was  buried  at  Cracow,  where  the  follow- 
ing Latin  inscription  covers  his  remains  : 

Subter  te,  qui  legis, 
SIMEON  ZIMOROWICZ   Leopoliensis 
Omnium  Musarum  et  Gratiarum 

Floridus  Adolescens 
Particulam  Terrse  Roxolan® 

Cum  calculo  abjecit: 

Ipse  Indole,  Litteris,  Moribus 

Annos  XXV  supergressus 

Eediit  unde  venerat 
Anno  1629,  Die  21  Junii. 

Cui 

FR.  MR.  Lachrymas  et  longum  Vale 
Tu  Supremum  Have  da  et  I. 


70       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

SONG. 
"Widzialem  cig  z  okieneczka." 

I  saw  thee  from  my  casement  high, 
And  watch'd  thy  speaking  countenance; 

With  silent  step  thou  glidest  by, 
And  didst  not  cast  a  hurried  glance 

Upon  my  mean  abode  nor  me. 

Then  misery  smote  me, —  but  for  heaven 
I  should  have  fallen  scathed  and  dead. 

I  blame  thee  not, —  thou  art  forgiven ; 
I  yet  may  hear  thy  gentle  tread, 

When  evening  shall  o'ermantle  thee. 

The  evening  came, —  then  mantling  night; 

I  waited  till  the  full  moon  tower'd 
High  in  the  heaven.     My  longing  sight 

Perceived  thee  not;  the  damp  mists 
In  vain  I  sought  thee  anxiously. 

Didst  thou  upon  some  privileged  leaf 
My  name  record,  and  to  the  wind 

Commit  it, —  bid  it  charm  my  grief, 
Bear  some  sweet  influence  to  my  mind 

And  set  me  from  despairing  free? 

Where  are  the  strains  of  music  now, 
The  song,  the  dance,  that  morn  and  eve 

We  heard  around  my  house, — when  low 
And  sweet  thy  voice  was  wont  to  heave 

Soft  sighs  and  gentle  thoughts  for  me  ? 

'Tis  past,  'tis  past,  and  in  my  heart 
Is  sorrow,  silence  in  my  ear; 

The  vain  world's  wonted  smiles  depart; 
Joy  and  the  springtide  of  the  year, 

Fond  youth !  are  scatter'd  speedily. 


ZIMOROWICZ.  71 

Thou  hast  not  said  farewell !  no  sleep 
Shall  close  my  mourning  eye, — the  night 

Is  gloomy  now.  Go,  minstrel,  weep! 
For  I  shall  weep;  and  sorrow's  blight 

That  scathes  my  heart  shall  visit  tbee. 

SIELANKA. 

Zephyr !  that  gently  o'er  Ukraine  art  flying, 

Go  and  salute  my  Maryna  for  me; 
Whisper  her  tenderly,  soothingly  sighing 

"  Lo!  he  has  sent  these  soft  accents  to  thee!  " 

Why  dost  thou  dwell,  my  maiden  so  lonely? 

Why  dost  thou  dwell  in  so  gloomy  a  spot? 
Think  of  the  palace  of  Leopol*  —  only    » 

Think,  my  fair  maid !  though  thou  visit  it  not. 

There  in  thy  tower  is  a  window,  where  seated 
Often  thou  sheddest  a  smile  on  thy  swain, 

There  have  my  sighs  oft  an  audience  entreated; 
Maiden,  that  window  invites  thee  again. 

Lady !  the  thought  of  thy  absence  has  shaded 
Even  the  flow'rets  with  sorrow  and  gloom; 

All  the  bright  roses  and  lilies  are  faded, 

And  my  gay  orchard  is  stripp'd  of  its  bloom. 

Come,  my  fair  maid,  with  thy  beautiful  blushes, 
Shine  o'er  our  turrets, —  oh,  come  for  awhile ! 

Smile  on  us,  lady;  oh,  smile,  though  Red  Russia's 
Twice-castled  towers  may  deserve  not  thy  smile. 

Lo!  it  expects  thee,  its  lionsf  await  thee, 
Watching  like  sentinels  fix'd  on  the  height: 

*  Leopol  is  the  capital  of  Red  Russia,  Roxolania,  now  Austrian 
Gallicia. 

f  Lions — The  arms  of  Leopol. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Sleepless  and  eager  to  welcome  and  greet  thee 
When  thy  fair  vision  shall  dawn  on  their  sight. 

Haste,  maiden,  haste !  scatter  blessings  around  thee, 
Laughter  and  wit  are  waiting  thee  here; 

Courtesies,  feastings  and  smiles,  shall  be  found  thee, 
Wanderings  and  wassails  to  honor  thee,  dear ! 

Here  we  have  centered  the  graces  and  pleasures; 

Come  thou,  bright  lady !  inherit  them  now. 
Here  Nature  pours  out  her  charms  and  her  treasures, 

Nothing  is  wanted,  oh,  nothing  but  thou. 

SIELANKA. 

"Rozyna  mi  w  taneczku  pomarancze  dala." 

Kosina,  while  dancing,  an  orange  convey'd, 
And  promised  the  garland  that  circled  her  head; 
I  gave  her  my  hand  and  with  love  and  desire 
The  orange  was  turn'd  to  a  ball  of  bright  fire. 
It  burnt  like  a  coal  from  the  furnace,  and  made 
Its  way  to  my  heart,  while  it  fever'd  my  head. 

Eosina,  my  flame !  that  fair  orange  of  gold 

Has  kindled  a  passion  which  may  not  be  told. 

I  have  learnt  what  love  is ;  not  Venus  the  fair, 

But  the  whelp  of  a  lioness  fierce  in  her  lair; 

She-tiger  of  Caucasus  nurtured  to  scorn 

The  hearts  that  are  broken,  and  souls  that  are  torn. 

SIELANKA. 

"Roxolanki  Ukochane 
Przez  usta  wasze  rozane." 

Maid  of  Koxolania  fair! 
By  your  lips  of  roses  swear, 
Why  your  lyre's  sublimest  tone 


ZLMOEOWICZ.  73 

Sings  the  graceful  Thelegdon? 

'Tis  that  noblest  passion's  praise, 

Merits,  aye !  the  noblest  lays. 

Light  of  love  whose  kindling  stream 

Shines  like  morning's  dewy  beam ; 

Not  so  bright  the  dawn  which  shakes 

Splendent  ringlets  when  she  wakes. 

Not  so  rich  her  lips  of  red, 

When  their  balmy  breath  they  spread; 

Not  so  glorious  is  her  eye, 

Burning  in  its  richest  dye; 

Not  so  modest  when  her  face 

Shadows  all  its  blushing  grace. 

Yet  if  heaven's  thick-scattered  light 

Seeks  to  be  more  pure,  more  bright, 

'Tis  from  her  their  rays  they'll  take; 

Goddess  of  the  frozen  lake, 

Genii  of  the  wintry  snow, 

Warm  ye  in  her  beauty's  glow. 

Not  the  immeasurable  sea, 

Not  the  tides'  profundity, 

Not  the  ceaseless  years  that  sweep, 

Not  the  murmurs  of  the  deep, 

Shall  outlive  that  maiden  pure, — 

Shall  beypnd  her  fame  endure. 

Joyous  hours  again  renew, 

Songs  of  praise  and  rapture,  too. 

Maid  of  Roxolania,  praise, 

Praise  the  fair  one  in  your  lays. 


74        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


GAWINSKI. 

JOHN  GAWINSKI,  one  of  the  foremost  of  Polish 
bards,  who  for  ease  and  harmonious  flow  of  language 
can  be  put  by  the  side  of  Szymonowicz  and  Zimoro- 
wicz.  Of  his  poetical  compositions  which  deserve 
especial  notice  we  can  mention  "  The  Mournful 
Threns,"  "  Pastorals,"  and  "  Epitaphs  ";  as  also  "  The 
Epigrams"  on  different  subjects,  "The  New  Pasto- 
rals, ""The  Polish  Yenus,"  "Fortune  or  Luck,"  and 
"Idyls  of  Mopsus." 

In  the  poetry  of  Gawinski  the  reader  can  discover 
true  pictures  of  life  wrought  with  great  skill  and 
marked  by  pleasing  simplicity  and  excellence  of  lan- 
guage. 

Gawinski  was  born  in  Cracow  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  seventeenth  century.  After  finishing  his 
education  at  Cracow,in  order  to  still  further  improve  him- 
self he  lived  at  the  court  of  young  Ferdinand  Charles, 
although  during  the  stormy  reign  of  John  Casimir  he 
studied  law.  He  was  compelled  to  grasp  the  sword, 
and  fought  against  the  Cossacks  in  Ukraine.  The  time 
of  his  death  is  uncertain. 


PASTORAL  (SIELANKA). 

In  the  fair  fields  of  Rzeczniow  a  glade 

Was  circled  by  a  forest's  budding  shade ; 

There  Amaryllis  lay,  her  flocks  she  kept, 

While  in  the  spreading  shrubs  in  peace  they  slept. 

There  mid  the  branches  of  ancient  tree 

Damet  and  Myrtil  sat  and  skillfully 

Waked  the  reed's  music,  told  the  pleasing  dream 

Of  love  and  courtship's  joys;  —  and  this  their  theme  : 


GAWINSKI.  75 

DAMET. 

Gay  o'er  the  meadows  wends  the  songful  bee, 
From  flower  to  flower  swift  glancing  sportively, 
Robbing  their  hidden  sweets;  yet  if  decay 
Wither  the  flower,  she  turns  and  speeds  away. 
I  am  a  bee,  but  seek  the  sweets  whose  taste 
Is  fresh  and  fragrant,  spring-begotten  chaste:  — 
Sweet  Amaryllis!  my  fair  rose  thou  art; 
But  know,  no  wither'd  rose  can  charm  the  heart. 

MYRTIL. 

A  snow-white  turtle  on  a  fountain's  side 
Bends  o'er  the  mirror  stream  with  joy  and  pride; 
He  pecks  his  plumes,,and  in  the  water  clear 
Washes  his  silvery  feathers;  fluttering  there 
He  sees  another  dove,  and  nods  and  coos, 
And  flaps  his.  wings.     Poor  turtledove !  amuse 
Thyself  with  the  delusion,  the  deceit! 
Thyself  thou  dost  bewray,  thyself  dost  cheat. 
Love  has  its  flatteries, —  has  its  treacheries,  too, 
And  we're  pursued  when  fancying  we  pursue. 

• 

DAMET. 

Silently  swim  the  ducks  upon  the  lake, 

Silently,  in  the  absence  of  the  drake. 

He  comes!  he  comes!  the  welcoming  strains  begin; 

Round  him  they  crowd,  and  what  a  joyous  din! 

Man  is  the  temple's  prop,  the  temple's  base, 

On  which  is  raised  the  pile  of  woman's  grace. 

Without  him  Nature  is  a  shatter'd  whole, 

A  lifeless  life,  a  clod  without  a  soul. 

MYRTIL. 

From  the  deep  waters  Venus  has  its  birth, 
And  reigns  the  queen  of  ocean  and  of  earth. 


76        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Charm'd  by  her  influence  even  the  fishes  stray 
Wandering  enamor'd  round  her  witching  way, 
Each  fed  by  love  and  mastered  by  desire, 
Even  in  the  wave  glows  passion's  busy  fire. 
How  should  I  struggle  'gainst  the  flame  when  thou 
Art  the  bright  Venus  that  inspires  me  now ! 


DAMET. 

The  night  bird  sings  upon  the  hazel  tree, 
The  wind  sweeps  by,  the  leaves  dance  murmuringly. 
She  speaks, —  the  nightingale  his  strains  gives't  o'er. 
The  leaves  are  still,  the  rude  wind  speaks  no  more. 

i 

MYRTIL. 

Fair  is  the  rose  when  laughing  in  its  bud, 
Fair  o'er  the  plain  towers  the  tall  cedar  wood. 
She  comes !  the  cedars  and  the  rose  are  dull ; 
Even  Lebanon  bows,  though  proud  and  beautiful. 


DAMET. 

The  moon  obeys  the  sun,  and  every  star. . . . 
Pays  homage  to  the  moon;  the  twilight  far 
Leads  in  and  out  the  shifting  days;  and  so 
I  dwell  with  thee,  my  fair!  where'er  thou  go. 

MYRTIL. 

On  the  proud  world  the  sun  delighted  beams, 
Piercing  the  blue  depth  of  the  rolling  streams. 
So  would  I  bathe  me  in  thy  azure  eyes, 
And  drown  me  in  thy  heart's  deep  mysteries. 


GAWINSKI.  77 

'Twas  thus  the  shepherds  sung.     The  sky  above 
Looked  smiling  on  their  strains  of  eloquent  love; 
And  Amaryllis,  from  the  blooming  thorn 
Tore  a  white  sprig  their  temples  to  adorn: 
And  from  that  hour  t'  enjoy  their  simple  airs 
She  often  came,  and  mixed  her  flocks  with  theirs. 

BONES  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

Traveler,  our  bones  are  bleaching  on  the  ground, 
And  yet  unburied.     Pity  not  our  doom. 
Ours  is  a  grave  of  glory,  shrouded  round 
In  virtue,  and  the  vault  of  heaven  our  tomb. 

SOLDIER  SLAIN. 

I  fought,  my  land,  for  thee!  for  thee  I  fell; 

On,  not  beneath,  the  turf  I  rest  my  head.  . 
Witness,  my  country,  that  I  loved  thee  well; 

Living,  I  served  thee,  and  I  guard  thee  dead. 

THE  PLOUGHMAN  AND  THE  LARK. 

Sweet  lark!  the  twilight  of  the  dewy  morn 
Calls  me  to  plough,  and  to  thy  music  thee. 

Blessings  be  with  us !  on  thy  notes  be  borne 
Success:  —  I  toil,  I  sow  for  thee  and  me. 


ELIZABETH  DRUZBACKA. 


78 


DRUZBACKA.  79 


DRUZBACKA. 

ELIZABETH  DKUZBACKA  sprung  from  a  very  respecta- 
ble family  of  Kowalski,  and  occupies  an  important 
rank  in  Polish  literature;  in  fact,  she  must  be  con- 
sidered as  the  first  Polish  poetess.  Possessing  a  true 
poetic  feeling  of  the  heart,  she  placed  herself  at  once 
in  the  first  poetic  rank  of  those  days.  She  w'as  able  to 
get  rid  of  the  literary  contamination  of  that  age,  and 
wrote  in  pure  Polish. 

Among  her  poems  deserving  especial  notice  are, 
"The  Christian  History  of  the  Princess  Elefantina," 
"The  Life  of  David,"  "The  Praise  of  Forests,"  "The 
Penance  of  Mary  Magdalen,"  "The  Four  Seasons," 
etc.  etc.  Madam  Druzbacka  possessed  an  inborn 
talent  for  poetry,  but  the  defective  taste  of  the  age 
taints  some  of  her  compositions;  still,  there  is  much 
wit  and  beauty  in  her  poetic  productions.  She  was  not 
a  learned  woman,  and  spoke  but  her  own  native  tongue, 
but  born  with  a  natural  inclination  for  writing  poetry, 
she  exhibits  great  vigor  of  conception  of  thought,  live- 
liness of  imagination,  and  originality  in  her  creations. 
The  buoyant  fancy  and  strong  feeling  united  with  piety 
devoid  of  fanaticism  were  the  chief  traits  of  Druz- 
backa. 

She  was  born  in  1687,  and  passed  her  younger  days 
with  Madam  Sieniawska,  Castelane  of  Cracow,  where 
she  married  and  became  acquainted  with  the  highest 
circles  of  Polish  society.  Her  husband  being  one  of 
the  king's  officials  she  lived  in  Great  Poland.  After 
the  death  of  her  husband  she  entered  the  convent  of 
Lady  Bernardines,  at  Tarnow,  but  was  not  initiated  in- 
to the  order.  She  died  in  1754. 
6 


80        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

SPRING. 

0  golden  season  in  childlike  disguise, 

Gay  Spring !  so  gratefully  we  feel  thy  smile 

We  needs  must  overlook  thy  vagaries 

Whether  thy  winds  blow  cold  or  warmly  wile; 

Or  thou  with  childlike  freedom  dost  presume 

To  fright  with  snow  the  flowers  that  earliest  bloom. 

But  shouldst  thou  frighten  thou  wilt  do  no  harm, 
Neither  with  freezing  cold  nor  sultry  glare ; 

Thou  pleasant  season !  adding  to  each  charm 
An  understanding  with  the  sun  and  air. 

Thou  knowest  when  to  warm  and  when  to  cool, 

And  age  refreshed  grows  young  beneath  thy  rule. 

Thou  hast  the  power  to  unbind  the  earth 
From  frosty  chains  and  give  her  liberty — 

A  loving  child  to  her  who  gave  thee  birth, 

Her  fetters  fall  from  her  when  touched  by  thee. 

And  through  the  warmth  that  in  thy  bosom  stirs 

The  icy  grasp  is  loosed  at  length  from  hers. 

When  passes  winter's  dark,  tyrannic  sway, 
From  thee  the  earth  fresh  inspiration  draws 

Thou  openest  warm  thoroughfares  each  day 
Where  frozen  clod  and  hardened  debris  thaws. 

When  thy  soft  breath  goes  forth  upon  the  Earth, 

Life  conquers  death  in  all  renewing  birth. 


SARBIEWSKI.  81 


SARBIEWSKI. 

MATHEW  CASIMIR  SARBIEWSKI,  who  gained  much 
fame  as  a  Polish  lyrist  in  Latin,  was  born  in  1595.  He 
was  especially  admired  for  his  correctness  of  expres- 
sion and  the  beauty  of  poetic  turns.  He  was  called 
the  Polish  HORACE  in  an  age  when  the  knowledge  of 
the  Latin  tongue  was  considered  as  the  highest  accom- 
plishment. He  was  so  perfect  in  the  handling  of 
Latin  that  he  outstripped  all  other  Latin  poets;  his 
poetic  flight  was  one  of  an  eagle,  and  no  one  has  ap- 
proached Horace  nearer  than  he. 

Sarbiewski  entered  the  Society  of  Jesuits  in  1613, 
and  lectured  in  the  college  of  Wilno  on  the  rules  of 
oratory.  He  then  went  to  Rome,  where  he  became 
very  famous,  and  where  he  was  crowned  with  a  poetic 
wreath  by  Urban  VII.  Returning  to  Poland  Sigis- 
mund  III  named  him  a  court-preacher  to  his  son 
Ladislaus  IV  and  chose  him  as  his  personal  companion 
and  friend. 

Sarbiewski  was  quite  an  artist  on  the  harp,  and 
sang  well.  "With  these  he  amused  and  cheered  the 
king,  and  also  interested  him  with  his  instructive  con- 
versation. Inseparable  from  the  king  he  traveled  with 
him  not  only  through  Poland,  but  also  into  foreign 
countries.  He  died  April  2,  1640.  During  his  life- 
time he  formed  many  intimate  friendships  with  the 
literary  men  of  his  time,  and  Dr.  Watts  translated  and 
imitated  many  of  Sarbiewski's  lyrics. 

Sarbiewski's  works  were  published  in  many  places, 
such  as  Cologne,  "Wilno,  Antwerp,  Cracow,  Paris,  Bres- 
lau,  and  London.  Louis  Kondratowicz,  an  eminent 


82  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Polish  poet  and  scholar,  is  the  translator  of  Sarbiew- 
ski's  Latin  poems  into  Polish. 

TO  THE  CICADA. 

Thou,  whose  voice  in  the  grove's  silence  is  heard  aloft, 
While  thou  drinkest  the  tear-drops  of  the  heavenly  dews, 
Thy  sweet  music,  Cicada, 
In  thine  ecstasy  pouring  forth. 

Come!  come!  summer  on  light  wheels  is  advancing  fast, 
While  the  hastening  suns  move,  be  they  hail'd  but  chid 
For  their  tarrying  too  long, 
When  the  frosts  of  the  winter  flee. 
As  days  dawn  in  their  joy  so  they  depart  in  haste; 
So  flee,  speedily  flee;  speedily  speeds  our  bliss. 
Too  short  are  its  abidings ;  — 
But  grief  lingeringly  dwells  with  man. 

TO  THE  POLISH  AND  LITHUANIAN  KNIGHTS. 

Poles !  0  let  no  foreign  customs  throw  their 
Scandal  among  you.     Teach  religious  duties, 
Laws  of  your  country,  virtues  of  your  fathers, 
Teach  to  your  children. 

Sacred  your  temples, — your  tribunals,  justice; 
Peace,  truth,  and  love  dwell  midst  you,  omnipresent; 
AH  that  is  vile  and  all  that  is  unholy, 
Drive  from  your  country ! 

Walls  screen  not  crime,  and  punishment  will  force  its 
Way  through  the  towers  and  through  the  thrice-bound  portals, 
Smiting  the  vicious.     Thunderbolts  but  wait  to 
Burst  on  the  vile  one. 

Painted  deceit,  tyrannical  ambition; 
Wealth-seeking  lust,  and  luxury's  excesses 
Chase  them  far  from  you;  let  them  never  hold  a 
Throne  in  your  bosom. 


SAEBIEWSKI.  83 

Poverty  gives  to  man  unwonted  vigor, 
Teaches  him  patience  'neath  the  weight  of  suffering, 
Arms  him  with  courage ;  but  the  stolen  armour 
Wearies,  though  golden. 

Whether  your  lot  be  war  or  peace,  ye  Poles! 
Still  be  united,  for  united  brothers 
Stand  like  a  temple  on  a  hundred  pillars, 
Firmly  supported. 

So  midst  the  rocks  the  sailor  in  his  prudence 
Looks  to  the  stars ;  and  so  the  friendly  anchor 
Steadies  the  vessel  on  the  heaving  ocean,  — 
Steadies  it  surely. 

So  does  the  bond  that  binds  the  social  fabric 
Strengthen ;  while  strife  and  mighty  fraud  and  rancour 
Overthrow  cities,  threatening  desolation 
E'en  to  the  mightiest. 

TO  LIBERTY. 

Queen  of  brave  nations  :  —  Liberty ! 
What  land  thy  favorite  seat  shall  be? 
What  land  more  suited  to  thy  reign 
Than  Poland's  fertile,  charming  plain? 
Daughter  of  council  and  of  bliss 
The  mother  and  the  nurse  of  peace; 
Thou,  sought  midst  many  dangers  round, 
Midst  more  than  many  dangers  found ; 
Higher  than  thrones  thy  throne  we  see, 
Majestic  more  than  majesty; 
Thou  mistress  of  our  country's  fame, 
Now  stop  thy  course,  — thy  smile  we  claim. 
Arrest  thy  cloud-encircled  car, 
And  linger  where  thy  votaries  are! 


84        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

0,  see  upon  thy  Vistula 
Lithuania's  sons  in  long  array, 
The  Lechan  and  Littavian  ranks 
Like  sea- waves  gathering  on  its  banks; 
No  servile  crowds  we  bring  to  thee, 
But  heirs  of  ancient  bravery  : 
Sons  of  the  North,  whose  blood  remains 
As  pure  as  in  their  fathers'  veins; 
Untaught  from  faith  and  truth  to  swerve, 
Train'd  by  the  laws  their  king  to  serve, 
They  spurn  a  stranger's  stern  commands, 
And  love  their  land  o'er  other  lands! 

And  is  there  ought  so  purely  bright 
As  when  in  truth  and  virtue's  light 
Impartial  Freedom  deigns  to  shed 
Her  joys  on  prince  and  people's  head? 
•   Then  the  unfettered  man  disdains 
Sloth's  soul-debilitating  chains, 
And  Genius,  like  a  conqueror,  flies 
On  to  the  goal  and  claims  the  prize. 

No  foreign  calls  our  ranks  can  move; 
We  but  obey  the  chief  we  love, 
And  follow  where  his  footsteps  lead, 
To  freedom's  goal  and  victory's  meed; 
As  o'er  Carpathia's  hoary  height 
Our  sires  achieved  a  glorious  fight; 
And  on  the  widespread  field  of  Thrace 
Our  fathers  found  their  triumph-place; 
And  when  our  flags  waved  smiling  o'er 
The  Bosphorus  and  the  Baltic  shore. 
And  proud  Teutonia,  bearing  all 
Her  Asian  spoils,  was  forced  to  fall 
Before  those  iron  columns  we 
Had  rear'd  to  mark  our  sovereignty; 


SARBIEWSKI.  85 

Those  mighty  trophies  of  the  brave, 
The  unconquerable  Boleslaw; 
And  by  the  Borysthene's  side, 
And  by  the  Volga's  current  wide. 
And  past  the  Alexandrian's  shrines 
And  to  those  dark  Lapponian  mines, 
Where  the  fierce  North  wind  has  its  birth: 
We  trod  the  far  Danubian  earth. 
Saw  old  Bofttes  freeze  his  waves, 
And  dug  for  the  Meotians,  graves. 

Are  we  degenerate?     Shall  the  fame 
Of  our  own  fathers  blast  our  name? 
Smile  on  our  prayers,  0  Liberty! 
And  let  the  world  thy  dwelling  be. 

Urban*  and  Ferdinand  combine, 
0  Wladislaw,  their  powers  with  thine. 
And  the  world  calls  thee  to  confer 
Her  laurels  on  the  conqueror, — 
Thou,  Sigismund's  illustrious  son, 
Thou  of  the  blood  of  Jagellon. 
0  what  can  darken,  what  delay 
The  glory  of  our  future  day? 

Hail  Wladislaw!  thou  hope  of  man, 
Fav'rite  of  God,  our  Poland's  van. 
All  hail!  our  warrior  senate  cries. 
All  hail!  a  people's  voice  replies. 
A  thousand  lances  shine  around, 
All  hills  and  vales  and  woods  resound 
The  song  of  joy.     And  raised  above 
His  watery  throne,  his  praise  and  love 

*  Urban  VIII,  who  distinguished  Sarbiewski  by  very  marked  at- 
tentions, and  when  they  parted  hung  around  his  neck  a  golden  cross 
to  which  a  miniature  of  his  Holiness  was  attached. 


86        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Old  Vistula  shouts  forth ; — their  brow 
Proudly  the  Crapack  mountains  bow 
In  homage. 

Say  what  projects  vast 
Struggling  in  thy  great  soul  hast? 
For  such  a*soul  unceasing  teems 
With  mighty  thoughts  and  glorious  dreams, 
And  still  springs  forward  to  the  praise 
Of  distant  deeds  and  future  days: 
Nor  sloth  nor  luxury  shall  impede 
That  opening  fame,  that  dawning  deed; 
Or  quiet  wisdom  to  overthrow 
The  dark  designings  of  the  foe, 
Or  splendid  daring — swift  and  bold, 
Sweeping  like  surges  uncontroll'd, 
'    The  heir-loom  of  thy  sires  of  old. 

Thus  did  the  Jagellons,  they  spread 

Their  praise,  their  glory  and  their  dread — 

Envied,  admired,  and  fear'd — the  son 

Soon  made  the  father's  fame  his  own: 

And  envy.'s  wing  could  not  pursue 

A  flight  so  high  and  glorious,  too; 

The  ambitious  son  outshone  the  sire, 

As  glory's  mark  ascended  higher. 

Till  to  our  thought  no  hopes  remain 

Their  fame  and  glory  to  maintain. 

This  is  our  noblest  heritage, — 

A  name,  bequeathed  from  age  to  age. 

For  thee,  from  centuries  afar 

A  mingled  wreath  of  peace  and  war, 

Have  generations  waited, — now, 

Wear  the  proud  trophy  on  thy  brow: 

Make  all  thy  father's  victories  thine, 

With  these  thy  gentle  virtues  twine; 


SAKBIEWSKI.  87 

Success  shall  show  thee  fairer, — woe 
Shall  bid  thy  roots  yet  deeper  grow. 
Such  are  Sarmatia's  prayers.     Her  prayers 
Up  to  the  heavens  an  angel  bears ; 
On  vows  no  chance  shall  e'er  repeal 
Eternity  has  set  her  seal. 

A  THOUGHT. 
(From  Saphics.) 

He  has  lived  long  and  well  whose  death  enforces 
Tears  from  his  neighbors, — who  has  made  his  glory 
Heir  to  himself, — rapacious  time  will  plunder 
All,  all — besides  it. 


88  POETS    AND    POETKY    OF    POLAND. 


KONAESKI  * 

STANISLAUS  HIERONIM  KONARSKI  belongs  to  the 
greatest  practical  philosophers  of  the  age.  It  was  he 
who,  having  ascertained  by  his  learning  and  compre- 
hensive powers  of  the  mind  the  vanity  and  absurdity 
of  the  ways  and  manners  of  education  and  enlighten- 
ment practiced  in  the  period  in  which  he  lived,  by  his 
writings  scattered  to  the  winds  the  darkness,  reinstated 
the  freedom  of  thought,  and  presented  to  his  country- 
men fresher  models  than  the  old  musty  Latin  works; 
implanted  into  the  minds  of  Polish  youth  new  ideas 
tending  to  moral  improvement,  and  awakened  the  true 
spirit  of  inquiry  after  learning.  He  struck  the  old 
pedantism  a  heavy  blow,  introducing  in  its  stead  fresh- 
ness and  naturalness  of  expression  and  modern  concep- 
tions. His  works  written  on  the  subject  had  a  great  in- 
fluence on  the  reform  of  Polish  literature,  because  they 
not  only  treated  on  aesthetics  but  also  on  moral  and 
practical  philosophy.  The  most  prominent  of  these 
are  "  De  Emendandis  Yitiis"  and  ' '  Yolumina  Legum. ' ' 
The  first  treats  extensively  of  the  defective  style  of 
writing  and  oratory,  but  what  is  most  curious  and  cred- 
itable to  him  is  that  in  order  to  have  his  criticism  fall 
gently  upon  the  works  of  his  predecessors  and  contem- 
poraries, he  very  good  humoredly  criticised  some  of 
his  own  works  formerly  written,  and  pointed  out  his 
own  defects  with  unsparing  justice.  In  "  Yolumini  de 
Legum  "  he  endeavored,  with  much  zeal  for  the  public 

*  Although  not  a  poet  was  a  man  of  eminent  literary  talents,  and 
having  created  a  new  epoch  in  Polish  literature  deserves  an  honored 
place  here. 


KO1STAKSKI.   .  89 

good,  to  collect  different  statutes  and  scattered  consti- 
tutions into  a  settled  code  of  laws.  That  successful 
service  to  his  country  accomplished  much  good,  and 
was  of  itself  enough  to  immortalize  his  name.  In  his 
"  Art  of  Correct  Thinking,  Without  Which  There  Can- 
not Be  Correct  Speaking,"  where,  in  sensible  and 
judicious  observations  he  straightens  out  the  mind  of 
the  Polish  youth  by  numerous  and  well-selected  ex- 
amples, adducing  also  specimens  of  beautiful  and  per- 
fect oratory.  The  especial  merit  of  this  work  is  that 
it  contains  a  great  deal  of  useful  matter  necessary  to 
the  Polish  people  of  those  days.  It  was  the  noble  aim 
of  the  author  to  put  down  prejudices,  and  fit  the  mind 
for  the  reception  of  useful  truths.  The  fourth  work  of 
Konarski  was  ' '  Of  Successful  Way  and  Manner  of  Ad- 
vising." We  can  place  that  work  among  those  produc- 
tions of  which  the  Polish  nation  has  a  right  to  be  proud. 
You  can  see  in  it  a  true  citizen,  whose  heart  burns  with 
love  to  his  country,  and  earnestly  engaged  with  the 
welfare  of  his  fellow- citizens.  In  writing  this  work  for 
a  people  who  were  not  as  yet  well  versed  in  political 
science,  and  promulgating  certain  truths  contrary  to  the 
common  prejudices  of  the  majority,  he  had  to  use  vari- 
ous methods  to  elucidate,  explain,  and  adapt  them  to 
the  understanding  of  all.  The  fifth  production  of  this 
distinguished  man  was  "Of  Religion,  of  Honest  Peo- 
ple, and  Against  the  Doctrines  of  Deism,"  wherein  the 
author  endeavors  to  convince  his  readers  that  without 
religion  morality  cannot  have  solid  foundation;  hence, 
good  and  virtuous  intentions  of  a  community  are  flimsy 
and  uncertain  unless  supported  by  religious  convic- 
tions. 

Taking   it   as   a  whole   Konarski's   writings   show 
genius.     His  correct  views  in  the  matter  of  presented 


90        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

subjects;  his  lively  imagination;  broad  and  sensible 
explanations,  and  above  all  his  power  of  philosophical 
reasoning,  emanating  from  his  profound  knowledge  of 
the  subjects  upon  which  he  treats,  places  him  in  the 
highest  ranks  of  Polish  writers. 

Konarski  was  born  in  1700,  and  received  his  in- 
itiatory education  at  the  institution  of  the  Order  of 
Piiars,  which  order  he  entered  in  the  seventeenth  year 
of  his  age,  and  against  the  wishes  of  his  powerful  rela- 
tives. 

lie  was  soon  transferred  thence  to  the  College  of 
Warsaw  as  the  professor  of  philosophy.  In  the  year 
1725,  with  the  advice  of  his  uncle  Tarlo,  the  bishop  of 
Posen,  he  went  to  Italy,  where,  in  the  city  of  Rome, 
he  gave  lectures  on  oratory  and  history.  From  Rome 
he  went  to  Paris,  where  he  closely  connected  himself 
by  the  ties  of  friendship  with  the  celebrated  Fontenelle, 
the  great  philosopher,  orator,  and  poet.  After  a  lapse 
of  six  years  he  returned  to  his  country  and  became 
professor  of  history  in  Cracow,  then  he  occupied  the 
same  dignity  at  Rzeszow,  and  was  made  Provincial  of 
his  order.  In  the  year  1743  he  established  a  boarding- 
school  for  the  youth  of  the  nobles,  or  Collegium  'No- 
bilium.  He  also  established  similar  schools  at  Wilno 
and  Lemberg.  At  his  Warsaw  college  he  arranged  the 
building  so  that  a  part  of  it  was  appropriated  exclu- 
sively for  dramatic  representations,  and  dramatic  plays 
of  the  most  celebrated  tragic  poets  were  there  repre- 
sented, especially  the  French:  Corneille,  Racine,  and 
Crebillon.  Konarski  had  also  a  great  influence  in 
putting  down  .the  liberum  veto,  receiving  for  the  great 
service  the  hate  of  second-class  nobility. 

In  1748  he  again  left  his  native  land  for  other  coun- 
tries. He  visited  France  and  the  most  celebrated  acad- 


KOI^AESKI.  91 

emies,  and  returning  to  "Warsaw  employed  himself  in 
finishing  his  "  Collegium, "  which  was  opened  in  1754. 
In  1749  Komorowski,  the  Primas,  sent  Konarski  to 
Rome  in  an  important  cause,  which  mission  he  fulfilled 
with  great  credit  to  himself.  He  lived  on  terms  of 
friendship  with  the  most  distinguished  men  of  his  age, 
and  almost  of  all  countries,  who  frequently  sought  his 
advice.  He  was  personally  known  to  Pope  Benedict 
XI Y,  to  August  II  and  III,  as  also  to  Stanislaus  Lesz- 
czynski,  whom  he  accompanied  to  Lotaringia  (Lorraine). 
In  France  he  had  insured  to  him  by  Louis  XV  the  in- 
come of  two  abbacies.  Ranks  of  dignity  which  were 
frequently  offered  to  him  he  would  never  accept;  hence, 
for  the  bishopric  by  Benedict  XIV",  as  also  for  the 
bishopric  of  Przemysl  by  August  II,  and  the  same  dig- 
nity offered  him  by  King  Stanislaus  Poniatowski,  in 
Livonia,  he  only  returned  thanks  but  would  not  accept 
of  them.  The  king  wishing  to  honor  Konarski  for  his 
great  labors  ordered  a  medal  to  be  struck  in  his  honor, 
with  the  inscription,  Sapere  Auso  (To  him  who  dared 
to  be  wise).  He  died  in  1773. 

His  work,  ' '  De  Emendandis  Vitiis, "  was  published 
in  "Warsaw  in  1741;  "  Of  the  Art  of  Correct  Think- 
ing," also  in  "Warsaw  in  1767;  "  The  Best  Mode  in 
Advising"  in  1760,  and  "  Of  Religion  "  in  1769. 


92        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


NARUSZEWICZ. 

ADAM  STANISLAUS  NARUSZEWICZ,  although  brought  up 
according  to  the  old  customs  of  the  country,  was  never- 
theless a  quick  learner  of  the  new  social  and  political 
elements  which  began  to  permeate  through  the  higher 
and  more  advanced  social  circles  in  Poland;  hence  he 
may  be  considered  as  the  incarnation  of  two  different 
epochs.  His  writings,  therefore,  are  the  depositories 
of  two  contending  intervals.  In  them  he  boldly  educts 
the  progressive  principle,  fearlessly  attacking  the 
corruption  of  the  age  and  handling  without  gloves  the 
pretentions  of  the  nobility,  indolence,  extravagance, 
and  other  national  defects. 

As  a  poet  he  represents  two  sides,  diametrically 
opposite  to  each  other  :  —  one  that  of  a  panegyrist,  the 
other  that  of  a  satirist.  He  wrote  odes,  satires,  fables, 
and  idyls,  which  in  those  times  comprised  about  the 
whole  poetical  cycle,  which  he  considered  as  his  own, 
and  which  would  serve  him  to  pave  the  way  to  dis- 
tinction and  fame. 

Although  there  is  much  of  the  poetic  spirit  in  his 
odes,  yet  as  a  whole,  emanating  from  different  circum- 
stances, adverse  to  poetic  inspiration  and  replete  with 
exaggerated  flattery,  they  do  not  on  that  account  pos- 
sess much  of  poetical  value.  He  had  doubtless  much 
power  and  poetic  ardor,  and  the  spirit  of  his  lyric 
poetry  could  soar  higher  than  any  of  his  contempo- 
raries. His  lively  and  fiery  imagination  opened  to  him 
a  rich  depository  of  bold  and  exalted  thoughts;  but 
this  life-giving  ardor,  this  creativeness  of  imagination, 
accompany  the  poet  only  when  their  incitement  comes 


NARUSZEWICZ.  93 

from  the  deep  feeling  of  truth,  and  when  the  theme 
itself  is  worthy  of  poetic  inspiration. 

Many  of  his  lyrics  have  only  a  semblance  of  decla- 
mation, and  a  superficial  luster  takes  place  of  emotion. 
Their  taste  and  style  remind  one  of  the  compositions 
of  the  sixteenth  century.  He  speaks  as  a  true  lyrist 
only  when  the  theme  is  patriotic  citizenship,  and  the 
love  of  his  country  warms  him  up. 

In  his  lyric  muse  Naruszewicz  constrains  himself 
to  flights  of  fancy,  and  in  his  satires  he  cannot  keep 
away  from  exaggeration,  though  we  may  say  that  in  his 
satires  he  very  properly  points  out  national  defects, 
and  while  furnishing  a  great  many  progressive  lessons, 
he  at  the  same  time  paints  a  faithful  historical  picture 
of  the  blemishes  of  the  existing  social  system.  His 
satire  of  "The  Voices  of  the  Dead,"  as  also  "The 
Return  of  the  Senators,"  are  written  in  an  old,  con- 
strained style,  full  of  ludicrous  images.  Naruszewicz 
was  very  much  addicted  to  the  introduction  of  mytho- 
logical personages,  which  he  pours  upon  his  readers 
without  stint.  However,  it  was  the  failing  of  all  the 
poets  of  Stanislaus'  Age.  but  Naruszewicz  exceeds 
them  all. 

In  his  satire  "The  Nobility  "  Naruszewicz  strongly 
upheld  the  privileges  of  birth;  indeed,  he  tried  to  build 
a  partisan  wall  between  the  two  different  classes  which 
was  very  distasteful  even  to  his  own  kindred.  In  his 
satire  "The  Folly  "  he  represents  a  false  devotee,  or 
we  may  say  a  downright  hypocrite.  "The  Spoiled 
Age "  is  a  continual  grumbling  that  tilings  are  not  as 
they  should  be.  In  his  "  Flattery  "  he  ridiculed  the 
common  national  foible  of  court  manners  and  the  bad 
influence  they  had  on  national  literature.  "  The  Lean 
Litterateur  "  is  another  unique  production,  reminding 


94        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

us  of  the  sad  epoch  of  superficiality  when  solid  sciences 
were  not  appreciated,  and  hence  the  true  litterateur  was 
always  lean  and  poor,  and  as  a  characteristic  type  it 
went  into  a  proverb. 

As  to  idyllic  compositions  Naruszewicz  had  no  great 
talent.  Accustomed  to  court  life  and  a  great  friend  to 
a  fashionable  world,  he  could  not  understand  nor  ap- 
preciate the  charms  of  rural  life;  indeed,  his  pastorals 
"The  Farm-house,"  "The  Happy  Marriage,"  and 
"Narcissus, "have  more  of  a  satirical  than  of  a  pas- 
toral turn.  However,  his  Polish  is  pure  and  correct, 
and  in  his  power,  freshness,  and  poetical  imagery,  he 
is  superior  to  Krasicki.  Indeed,  we  find  in  his  satires 
many  beautiful  expressions,  —  new  and  pleasing  turns 
with  which  he  truly  enriched  the  Polish  literature. 

Naruszewicz  was  born  in  1733,  receiving  first  rudi- 
ments of  education  at  Pinsk.  In  1748  he  joined  the 
order  of  the  Jesuits,  which  sent  him  to  Lugdun.  Re- 
ceiving assistance  from  Prince  Czartoryiski  he  per- 
fected himself  in  learning  in  France,  Italy,  and  Ger- 
many. Returning  to  his  own  country  he  received  the 
professorship  of  the  Cathedra  of  Poetry  in  the  Academy 
of  Wilno,  and  subsequently  of  Warsaw.  He  was  so 
liked  by  the  kingt  Stanislaus  Augustus,  that  after  the 
abolition  of  the  order  he  resided  with  him.  After 
receiving  the  abbacy  of  Niemenc/.yn  he  was  admitted 
to  the  coadjutorship  of  the  bishopric  of  Smolensk. 
He  afterward  held  the  office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  Grand 
Duchy  of  Lithuania;  finally  he  was  made  a  bishop. 
Stanislaus  Augustus  honored  him  with  a  decoration, 
and  ordered  a  medal  struck  with  visages  of  Sarbiewski 
and  Naruszewicz.  He  died  in  1796  at  Janowce. 

His  works  were  published  in  "Warsaw  in  1778-1803, 
and  at  Leipzig  in  1835.     Naruszewicz's  biography  was 


NARUSZEWICZ.  95 

written  by  Julian  Bartoszewicz  in  his  work  ' '  Cele- 
brated Men  of  Poland  of  the  Eighteenth  Century," 
published  in  St.  Petersburg  in  1853,  in  three  volumes. 

CONSULTATION  OF  ANIMALS. 

In  a  corner  of  Africa  most  remote 

Animals,  so  runs  the  anecdote, 
Those  beasts  that  have  hoofs  and  those  that  have  claws, 

Established  government  and  laws. 

With  that  worthy  gentry  all  prospered  well 

Or  so  begun.     I'm  glad  to  tell 
That  harmony  reigned  throughout  the  land; 

And,  difficult  to  understand, 
Friendship,  too,  dwelled  there,  which  you  will  agree 

Is  what  we  very  seldom  see 
Among  the  masses  of  human  kind 

(Sorry  to  bring  the  fact  to  mind). 
The  wolf  did  not  start  from  his  savage  lair 

To  devour  goats,  and  pigs  to  snare; 
And  not  till  brother  in  strife  with  brother 

Begun  to  wrong  and  wound  each  other 
Was  there  example  harmful  in  the  least 

Set  before  the  misguided  beast. 

It  chanced,  when  hard  times  fell,  the  state 

Its  scanty  funds  to  aggregate 
Called  council ;  with  care  that  nothing  should  pass 

Except  in  justice  to  each  class 
Of  animals:  —  asses,  the  goats,  and  sheep, 

That  the  apportioned  tax  should  keep 
Of  equal  weight,  'mong  the  high  and  the  low, 

And  the  state  burdens  ordered  so 
That  each  could  easily  render  his  share, 

The  lowly  and  the  millionaire. 


96        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

With  preparation  and  dignity  great 

The  worthy  councillors  of  state 
A  meeting  called  to  settle  as  they  could 

These  matters  for  the  public  good. 

The  elephant  was  first  to  speak,  —  said  he: 

"  Citizen  animals,  most  worthy ! 
Oxen,  goats,  asses,  and  mules,  and  hares, 

Distinguished  by  the  name  each  bears, 
That  matters  to  all  should  be  without  wrong, 

To  the  meek  sheep  or  lion  strong, 
I  propose  to  you  in  all  sincerity, 

Without  favor  or  asperity: 
Let  each  one  who  thinks  that  in  small  or  great 

He  has  broken  the  laws  of  state 
Contribute  a  mark  to  the  treasury; 

From  this  a  great  auxiliary 
Will  our  country  gain,  while  at  the  same  time 

You  must  reflect,  all  sorts  of  crime 
In  our  country's  bounds,  from  west  to  east, 

From  north  to  south,  will  be  decreased." 

"  That  perhaps  might  do,"  said  the  crafty  fox, 

Bowing  most  humbly  to  the  flocks ; 
A  good-natured  grin  on  his  countenance  spread 

And  wagging  his  yellow  tail,  said  : 
"  Greater  the  income,  in  my  opinion, 

If  young  and  old  of  this  dominion 
Were  allowed  to  apprise  their  good  degrees, 

And  pay  a  florin  for  each  of  these; 
My  fame  for  judgment  I'll  stake  in  this  way, 

A  larger  sum  we  could  display, 
Which  would  be  with  the  utmost  promptness  paid, 

And  never  any  trouble  made. 


NARUSZEWICZ.  97 

Because,  may  it  please  your  reverence, 

They'd  rather  pay  than  evidence 
Transgression  of  the  law's  just  scope, 

Your  honor  sees  the  point — I  hope." 

• 

WHO  IS  FOOLISH  ? 

He  is  foolish  who,  possessing  neither  strength  nor  heart, 
With  vain  empty  boasts  acts  an  idle  swaggerer's  part. 
Who  with  proud  assumption  wondrous  learning  will  pretend, 
And  seek  to  teach  a  language  he  does  not  comprehend. 
Or  he  who  marries  not  as  befits  his  own  estate, 
For  to  fret  or  be  fretted  will  surely  be  his  fate. 
Who  seeks  fortune  in  cards,  profit  in  a  bone,  nor  knows 
Ever  that  which  comes  easily  as  easily  goes. 
He  is  foolish  who  through  craft  to  defraud  others  tries, 
And  seeks  credit  for  that  purpose  in  honesty's  guise. 
He  is  foolish  who  drinks  when  his  toes  are  out,  and  lives 
Beyond  his  income,  taking  all  while  he  nothing  gives. 
A  simpleton  is  he  who's  by  trifles  filled  with  fears, 
And  he  who  readily  believes  each  little  thing  he  hears. 
The  rich  who  buy  on  credit  and  let  their  money  rust; 
Foolish  is  the  merchant  who'll  an  idle  spendthrift  trust. 
He  is  foolish  who  weekly  his  losses  will  bemoan, 
Or  weds  an  old  woman  for  the  money  she  may  own. 
Foolish  he  who  with  affairs  of  state  will  interfere, 
Unfit  to  aid  or  council  he  muddles  what  was  clear. 
Who  boldly  of  his  creditor  asks  a  loan,  although 
He  has  failed  to  pay  a  debt  contracted  long  ago. 
He  is  foolish  who  alone  on  paper  projects  makes, 
Who  leaves  unfinished  ever  the  tasks  he  undertakes. 
Who's  familiar  with  unequals  shows  his  lack  of  sense, 
Or  who  farms  from  a  book  or  from  school  gets  eloquence, 
Who  only  speaks  truth  when  there's  no  falsehood  at  command, 
Who  amusement  seeks  with  that  he  does  not  understand, 
Who  pays  much  attention  to  the  talk  of  common  folk, 
7 


98        POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Who  allows  a  little  jest  his  anger  to  provoke. 

Who — but  there !  my  paper's  out,  and  some  perhaps  will  say 

I  am  making  my  remarks  in  a  fault-finding  way. 

Pray  excuse  me,  sirs,  if  I  have  said  too  much;  at  times 

A  subject  has  been  borne  too  far  by  my  erratic  rhymes. 

Poets,  and  musicians,  too,  upon  extremes  will  touch, 

Often  one  will  play  too  long,  the  other  say  too  much. 


KNIAZNLN.  99 


KNIAZtilN. 

FRANCIS  DYONISIUS  KNIAZNLN  was  a  poet  whose 
writings  are  characterized  by  pleasantness,  suavity,  and 
purity  of  the  heart.  His  vivid  conceptions,  combined  with 
great  feeling,  eminently  qualified  him  for  a  lyric  poet. 
He  does  not  soar  very  high,  nor  is  he  carried  by  sudden 
flights  of  imagination,  but  whenever  he  follows  his  own 
inspiration  he  charms  the  reader  with  his  wonderful 
simplicity.  In  that  respect,  he  may  be  considered  as 
equal,  if  not  superior,  to  Karpinski,  since  his  poetry 
strikes  more  deeply  into  the  heart  and  is  richer  in 
colors  and  imagery.  He  wrote  with  great  feeling  and 
expression. 

Among  his  works  we  can  mention  "  To  a  Citizen," 
' '  Ode  on  the  Centennial  Celebration  of  John  Sobieski's 
Victory  over  the  Turks  at  Yienna, "  "To  Grace, " 
"Rosemary,"  etc.  The  construction  of  Kniaznin's 
verse  is  peculiar  to  himself;  concise  in  expression,  the 
selection  of  soft  syllables  and  natural  expression  of 
thought  make  his  verses  very  harmonious  and  grateful 
to  the  ear. 

Kniaznin  was  born  in  1750,  and  was  brought  up  and 
educated  by  the  Jesuits;  in  fact  he  joined  the  society, 
but  after  the  abolition  of  the  order  in  1773  he  again  be- 
came a  civilian,  and  labored  assiduously  in  the  great 
library  of  Zahiski.  After  that  he  became  a  secretary 
to  Prince  Czartoryiski  at  Pulawy,  a  hospitable  place, 
which  in  those  days  was  in  reality  a  shelter  for  learned 
men.  The  changeful  events  of  those  years,  and  an  un- 
happy love,  darkened  his  existence  and  produced  de- 
mentia. He  died  in  1807. 


100       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

His  complete  works  were    published    in   Warsaw 
1828,  and  at  Leipsic  1835. 

A  REVERIE. 

The  goddess  of  darkness,  and  silence,  and  dreams, 
Hath  spread  her  black  wings  o'er  a  slumbering  world, 
Care  holdeth  no  longer  his  empire  o'er  man 
But  deep  in  oblivion's  abyss  has  been  hurled. 

Majestic  the  moon  riseth  up  in  the  sky, 

With  her  maidens  of  honor,  the  stars,  in  her  train, 

The  earth  is  in  solitude  gloomy  arrayed, 

And  in  silence  profound  reigns  o'er  hamlet  and  plain. 

Such  a  lesson  as  this  once  could  light  up  my  soul, 
And  forgetting  the  troubles  and  cares  of  the  earth 
My  mind  on  the  wings  of  conception  would  fly, 
And  give  to  a  thousand  imaginings  birth. 

I  hovered  in  joy  o'er  the  gay  land  of  dreams, 
Gave  to  gladness  a  smile,  and  to  sadness  a  tear, 
And  buoyed  in  safety  on  silver-winged  hope, 
Never  let  thoughts  of  the  future  with  bliss  interfere. 

•  There  fiery  and  bold  as  the  eagle  of  Jove 
My  young  spirit  roved  through  the  paths  of  the  sky, 
I  gave  to  the  wind  all  devices  of  love, 
Smiled  at  languishing  simpers,  and  laughed  at  a  sigh. 

But  love  stole  within  my  cold  heart  and  there  placed 
An  image  of  her  whose  cold  hardness  I  mourn ; 
I  loved  her — I  thought  that  the  world  was  but  her — 
I  loved — but  alas!  was  not  loved  in  return. 

To-day  e'en  the  ghost  of  my  once  blessed  hours 
Has  sank  in  the  earth,  and  departed  from  view, 
And  the  flowers  of  love,  to  which  wishes  gave  birth, 
Have  my  sighs  for  their  air,  and  my  tears  for  their  dew. 


KNIAZNIN.  101 

For  another  has  plucked  the  red  rose  from  the  stem, 
And  the  beautiful  flower  in  his  bosom  will  bloom, 
Whilst  I,  like  a  spirit  from  heaven  cast  out, 
Am  sentenced  to  Erebus,  sorrow,  and  gloom. 

ETERNITY. 

Holy  Eternity!     Thou  work  of  wonder! 
In  thy  belief  all  virtuous  hearts  concur; 
Those  that  have  in  thee  hopeful  confidence 
Paint  thee  in  tints  of  rare  magnificence ! 
While  others  trembling  for  themselves  in  fear 
Would  with  doubt's  gloom  thy  sacred  light  obscure. 

The  earth  and  fathomless  sea 

Are  worthy  of  God's  dignity, 
And  thou  wilt  forever  with  them  endure! 

Time,  in  its  broken  and  unbroken  flight, 
Going  we  perceive  not  how  and  whither, 
Is  only  a  small  branch  from  thee  grown  hither, 
Unfolding  till  it  with  thee  unite. 

RELIGION. 

Religion,  thou  blessed  and  holy  name! 
Thy  sovereignty  and  thy  power  how  great! 
How  many  virtues  rare  within  thee  wait 
For  hearts  that  can  thy  presence  truly  claim. 

How  happy  on  this  earth  the  man  may  be 
Whose  eyes  thy  truth  and  glory  can  perceive; 
A  guard  thou  art  for  all  that  will  believe, 
A  shield  from  sin  for  those  that  cling  to  thee. 

In  trouble,  consolation  lies  in  thee ; 
Thou  bindest  man  to  God  with  holy  chain, 
Misfortune  linked  with  hope  forgets  its  pain ! 
Thou  bind'st  the  Present  with  Eternity. 


102  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 


MORAWSKI. 

FKANCIS  MORAWSKI  differs  from  other  poets  in  this 
respect:  that  he  was  named  "A  Soldier  Poet."  Sub- 
sequently we  see  his  easy  and  unrestrained  wit  soaring 
in  his  fugitive  verses,  but  with  such  happy  turns  and 
skill,  and  above  all  such  humor,  which  in  our  literature 
is  exceptional  and  rare,  and  belongs  neither  to  the 
classic  nor  romantic  school,  that  we  may  say  he  stands 
by  himself.  Morawski's  mind  was  very  flexible,  he 
being  a  frequenter  not  only  at  camp-societies,  but  also 
a  welcome  visitor  of  fashionable  salons,  giving  him  an 
opportunity  to  acquire  that  ease  and  pleasing  mien 
which  never  forsook  him  even  to  the  last  moments  of 
his  life. 

When  he  was  twenty  he  belonged  to  the  classic 
school.  Between  twenty  and  thirty  he  waged  a  liter- 
ary war  with  the  so-called  romantic  school,  and 
although  his  letters  and  satires  were  only  in  manu- 
script, they  circulated  freely  and  had  a  great  repute,  as 
indeed  they  were  very  forcible  and  witty. 

In  the  fourth  decade  of  his  life  we  see  him  writing 
ballads  and  romances;  in  the  fifth  he  is  the  translator 
of  "Andromache,"  and  then  he  finishes  his  poetic 
career  by  "  A  Visit  Into  the  Neighborhood,"  and  a 
poem,  "The  Home  of  My  Grandfather."  They  were 
indeed  all  true  Polish  pictures,  —  replete  with,  and  full 
of,  old-time  diction,  simplicity  of  language,  and  faithful 
delineations  of  historical  figures.  And  thus  Morawski, 
commencing  only  as  a  soldier  poet,  subsequently  goes 
through  other  periods,  and  with  a  flexibility  peculiar 
to  himself,  —  everything  new  that  came  into  repute  in 
the  literary  world. 


MORAWSKI.  103 

He  was  born  in  1785  in  the  Great  Duchy  of  Posen, 
and  received  a  careful  education  at  Leszno.  He  after- 
ward attended  a  law  school  at  Frankfurt,  and  subse- 
quently at  Kalish.  In  the  year  1806  he  served  in  the 
National  army  and  participated  in  the  great  wars  of 
Napoleon,  and  reached  the  rank  of  the  chief  of  staff. 
His  eulogy,  delivered  at  the  funeral  ceremony  of  Prince 
Joseph  Poniatowski,  23d  of  December,  1813,  was  a 
splendid  effort  of  oratory.  During  the  existence  of 
the  Duchy  of  Warsaw  he  served  in  the  Polish  army, 
and  in  1819  obtained  the  rank  of  brigadier-general. 
During  his  sojourn  at  Warsaw  he  frequently  visited 
General  Vincent  Krasinski,  whose  house  was  the  as- 
semblage of  distinguished  men  representing  literature. 
After  the  year  1831,  having  suffered  imprisonment  at 
Woiogda,  in  Russia,  he  retired  to  Posen,  and  settled  in 
a  village  called  Lubonia,  where  he  wrote  poetry,  prin- 
cipally for  a  literary  publication  called  "The  Friend 
of  the  People,"  issued  at  Leszno.  He  died  in  1861. 

His  works  were  published  at  Breslau;  then  a  col- 
lection of  poetry  in  1841;  at  Leszno  in  1851,  and  St. 
Petersburg  in  1855.  His  son  published  his  Fables  at 
Posen  in  1862;  Five  Poems  of  Lord  Byron  at  Leszno 
in  1853. 

A  sketch  of  his  life,  written  by  L.  Siemienski  in 
the  Polish  Review,  was  published  at  Cracow  in  1866. 

GIERMEK.* 

Once  in  Poland's  land  deep  sadness 
Filled  the  people  ev'rywhere, 
For  the  Swede  with  war's  fierce  madness 
Conquered  all  and  none  would  spare. 

*  Squire  or  shield-bearer. 


104       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

In  the  lindens'  shadows  dreary, 
Strayed  the  army's  broken  band; 
By  the  camp-fires  dumb  and  weary 
Mused  the  warriors  of  the  land. 

When  a  bard  with  white  hair  flowing, 
Came  the  shattered  ranks  among; 
Well  they  knew  those  accents  glowing, 
As  he  touched  his  lute  and  sung: 

Olden  themes  can  tell  a  story 
Charming  every  heart  and  ear; 
Olden  tales  of  valor's  glory, 
Ev'ry  patriot,  loves  to  hear. 

Once  we  stood  a  lofty  tower, 
And  a  shield  firm-fixed  and  strong 
To  repel  the  foreign  power 
Moved  to  work  our  people  wrong. 

On  the  foes  of  other  nations 
Fast  our  Polish  arrows  poured; 
Sang  we  Freedom's  exultations 
And  the  peace  that  we  adored. 

Clash  of  armies  fierce  contending, 
Anguished  moans  and  trumpets  swell, 
With  pursuits  wild  thunders  blending, 
Formed  the  hymns  we  knew  full  well. 

Ev'ning's  light  serene  and  solemn 
Sets  Petrolia's  fields  aglow; 
Comes  the  army's  stately  column, 
Unappalled  to  meet  the  foe. 

Wagons,  caissons,  onward  sweeping, 
Shake  the  ground  with  thundrous  pace, 


MORAWSKI.  105 

Rich  the  field  for  Death's  grim  reaping, 
As  the  threatening  armies  face. 

On  one  side  in  spotless  glory 
Faith's  bright  banner  fluttered  high 
O'er  brave  youths  and  hetman  hoary 
For  the  right  prepared  to  die. 

Mad  with  passion's  wild  commotion 
On  the  other  side  arrayed, 
Raging  like  a  troubled  ocean, 
Tartar  rabble's  ranks  displayed. 

Sank  the  sun  in  blood,  as  warning 
Every  one  that  strife  is  near; 
Carnage  dire  begins  when  morning 
In  the  flushed  East  shall  appear. 

Now  the  Polish  chief,  attended 
By  trained  bearer  of  his  shield, 
When  the  first  dusk  has  descended 
Mounts  resolved  to  scan  the  field. 

Now  the  foes'  dark  camp  surveying. 
Rides  he  numbering  fires  alight, — 
Hears  their  buzz,  their  horses'  neighing, 
And  in  thought  has  caused  their  flight. 

Chief  restrain  thy  soaring  fancies 
Tartars  fight  with  desperate  zeal ; 
Swift  and  changeful  war's  wild  chances, 
Hark !  those  sounds  raised  peal  on  peal. 

'Tis  the  Tartars'  rabble  forces, 
All  the  camp  is  now  alarmed; 
Cries  the  chief:  "Quick!  to  your  horses!" 
Chief,  —  shield-bearer,  —  all  are  armed. 


106  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Through  the  darkness  dense  prevailing, 
Through  tumultuous  rising  sound, 
'Mid  the  ranks  they  rush  assailing 
The  fixed  rabble  that  surround. 

Now  the  young  shield-bearer  breaking, 
From  his  youth  merged  fire  and  life; 
In  his  arm  while  still  unshaking, 
Brave-souled  hetman  led  the  strife. 

Hear  they  coming  in  the  distanqe, 
Polish  warriors!  glorious  bands! 
But  too  late  is  their  assistance; 
Destined  they  for  Tartars'  hands. 

Youth  is  taken!  —  hetman  taken! 
'Mid  a  savage  shout  prolonged; 
Stubborn  Khan  with  anger  shaken 
Views  the  captives  he  has  wronged. 

With  a  fierce  revenge  that  never 
Boil'd  with  greater  malice,  he 
Soon  decrees  the  two  forever 
Shackled  foot  to  foot  shall  be. 

To  the  skies  above  them  shining, 
Lifted  they  their  tear-dimmed  eyes; 
Yet  why  sing  I  their  repining 
Reveries  sad  and  hopeless  sighs? 

He  who  never  had  to  languish 
In  fell  slavery's  chains  can  know 
All  a  captive's  bitter  anguish, 
In  the  power  of  ruthless  foe: 

Who  in  grief  vain  and  despairing, 
Has  bedewed  his  food  with  teai*s, 


MORAWSKI.  107 

'Midst  a  savage  rabble  bearing 
Pain  untold,  long  suffering  years. 

For  a  time  in  mournful  dreaming 
Sat  the  bard,  depressed  and  mute; 
With  the  silent  tears  down  streaming, 
Then  resumed  his  song  and  lute. 

Soon  the  hetman  gray  is  sleeping, 
Hushed  to  rest  as  'mid  his  own; 
But  the  youth  a  watch  is  keeping, 
Wrapped  in  dreams  of  home  alone. 

Full  of  grief  and  pain,  no  sighing 
Or  embittered  tear  relieves; 
On  the  ground  beside  him  lying 
He  a  glittering  axe  perceives. 

Trembling,  dreaming,  thinking,  yearning, 
Filled  with  purpose  high  he  stands, 
Noble  fire  within  him  burning, 
Grasps  the  axe  with  vigorous  hands! 

On  his  iron  shackles  gazing, 
Firm,  unfaltering  aim  he  takes 
At  his  foot; — the  axe  upraising — 
Severed  'tis  —  the  chief  awakes! 

Cries  the  youth:  thy  people  need  thee, 
Slumbering  guards  the  way  leave  clear. 
Conquer  Khan,  for  I  have  freed  thee, 
Joyfully  I  will  perish  here. 

Rose  the  chief, — the  youth  confided 
To  God's  care  while  tears  flowed  fast, 
Blest  him,  from  the  dungeon  glided 
And  the  slumbering  sentry  past. 


108       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Suddenly  the  guards  awaken! 
Find  no  prisoner  but  the  youth, 
To  the  Khan  the  news  is  taken, 
Hastened  he  to  prove  its  truth. 

Scarce  believing  what  was  told  him, 
In  the  youth's  bold  eyes  he  gazed, 
Doubting  though  he  did  behold  him, 
Strove  to  read  him — sore  amazed. 

Virtue  conquers  Hate's  fell  power; 
Cure  the  youth  — 'tis  my  command, 
Said  the  Khan, —  and  with  rich  dower 
Send  him  to  his  native  land. 

Now  before  the  court — all  wearing 
Radiant  robes  of  royal  sheen, 
Comes  the  youth  with  grateful  bearing, 
Walking  two  famed  knights  between. 

With  a  crutch  his  form  sustaining, 
Now  the  beauteous  youth  appears, 
Wonder  in  their  bosoms  reigning, 
All  the  court  is  moved  to  tears. 

Comes  the  youth  deep  homage  showing 
To  the  king  placed  on  his  throne, 
Who  a  famous  sword  bestowing 
Named  him  knight,  while  thro'  his  own 

Circle  came  the  hetman  hoary 
With  a  golden  foot,  and  turned 
To  the  youth.  "  Distinctive  glory," 
Said  the  king,  "  you've  richly  earned. 

"  This  your  coat-of-arms  for  wearing, 
All  in  mem'ry  of  your  deeds; 


MORAWSKI.  109 

Full  of  virtue,  full  of  daring." 
Then  the  martyred  youth  he  leads 

'Mid  the  people's  shouts  up  pealing 
To  the  blest  altar  of  the  Lord; 
And  before  it  humbly  kneeling, 
There  he  fervently  implored 

That  success  might  e'er  attend  them ; 
Prays  he  to  the  God  of  heaven 
That  more  heroes  he  will  send  them 
For  their  country's  glory  given. 

Then  the  bard  no  longer  raising 
His  free  song, — his  lute  has  stilled, 
While  his  eyes  are  deeply  gazing 
In  the  hearts  his  song  has  thrilled. 


KARPINSKI'S  MONUMENT  AT  KOLQMYIA  (GALICIA). 


KARPINSKI.  HI 


KARPlftSKI. 

FKANCIS  KARPINSKI  is  one  of  those  few  who,  during 
the  reign  of  Stanislaus  Augustus,  deserve  the  name  of 
true  poets.  He  differs  from  the  old  classical  Polish 
poets  in  this,  that  they  were  artistic  and  followed  cer- 
tain rules  of  composition  with  much  strictness,  but 
Karpinski,  too  sincere  to  bend  that  way,  chooses  no 
especial  system,  but  sings  like  a  bird,  he  breathes  what 
he  has  in  his  soul,  and  spreads  the  feelings  of  his  heart 
right  before  us.  In  his  Thyrses  and  Corydons  we  can 
plainly  see  the  rustics  of  Polish  villages  with  small  no- 
bility in  the  background. 

Karpinski's  songs  breathe  the  elegiac,  rustic  spirit, 
remote  from  overstrung  caressings  and  fondlings  and 
erratic  reveries.  He  sang  with  a  sincere  feeling,  de- 
scribing his  emotions  almost  with  a  childlike  simplicity 
— though  every  thought  seems  combined  with  feeling, 
and  every  feeling  is  represented  by  a  corresponding 
pen  image.  All  his  original  poetry  bears  a  stamp  of 
sadness.  Some  of  these  songs  can  fairly  compare  with 
the  most  beautiful  compositions  of  Goethe.  It  is  al- 
most impossible  to  find  anything  equal  to  them  as  re- 
gards delicacy  of  feeling  and  expression.  With  the 
most  beautiful  of  these  we  may  include  the  idyl  "Lau- 
ra and  Philon."  His  religious  songs  hit  exactly  the 
heart  of  the  popular  feeling.  They  are  simple  and  art- 
less, and  always  worthy  of  their  subject.  Among  these 
we  can  mention  "The  Morning  Hymn,"  "  All  of  Our 
Daily  Doings,"  "  During  the  Labor  in  the  Field,"  etc. 
All  these  songs  are  destined  to  remain  forever  on  the 
lips  of  the  people. 

As  a  political  poet  Karpinski  has  no  significance, 


112  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

for  he  never  took  active  part  in  the  troublous  move- 
ments during  the  reign  of  Stanislaus  Augustus,  al- 
though he  wrote  a  few  threns,  consecrating  them  to  the 
caus€  of  his  country,  one  of  them  on  "The  3d  of  May, 
1791,"  and  another  "The  Lament  of  a  Sarmatian 
Over  the  Grave  of  Stanislaus  Augustus,  the  Last 
Polish  King  from  the  House  of  Jagellons."  His  song 
stopped  with  the  sad  fate  of  his  country,  and  he  him- 
self said  that  he  laid  down  his  lute  on  the  grave  of 
Sigismund. 

Karpinski  excels  in  sad  themes  and  grave  subjects. 
"The  Duma  of  Ludgarda"  is  a  fine  specimen  of  the 
kind. 

He  was  born  in  1741,  and  commenced  his  education 
at  Lemberg  (Leopol  or  Lwow),  then  for  a  short  time 
he  was  engaged  in  law  practice,  but  he  soon  became 
tired  of  it  and  traveled  in  foreign  countries.  He  re- 
mained in  Vienna  for  about  one  and  a  half  years,  de- 
voting himself  to  studies.  Returning  to  his  own  coun- 
try he  for  some  time  followed  farming,  and  then  he 
became  an  inmate  of  Prince  Czartoryiski's  family,  and 
finally  held  the  office  of  Secretary  of  the  Interior 
under  King  Stanislaus  Augustus.  Retiring  from  the 
office  the  king  persuaded  him  to  accept  the  tutorship 
of  young  Prince  Radziwit,  but  after  a  lapse  of'  a  year 
he  left  the  lucrative  place  and  took  in  rentage  the  vil- 
lage of  Krosniak  and  again  engaged  in  farming. 

In  the  year  1807  he  went  to  "Warsaw,  but  soon  quit 
the  capital  and  returned  once  more  to  the  peace  and 
quiet  of  a  country  life,  where  he  passed  the  remainder 
of  his  days  in  seclusion.  Being  a  single  man  he  left 
his  property  to  his  relatives.  He  died  in  1825.  He 
was  called  the  poet  of  the  heart. 

His  works  were  published  at  Warsaw  in  1792, 1806, 


KARPINSKI.  113 

and  1830,  in  Breslau  1826,  in  Leipsic  1836,  and  by  Tu- 
rowski,  in  Cracow,  1862. 

Besides  these  his  comedy,  "The  Rent,"  came  out 
in  1782;  the  tragedy,  "Boleslas  III,"  Warsaw  1790, 
and  "  The  Memoirs  of  the  Times  From  1741  to  1822," 
published  by  Moraczewski,  Posen  1844,  and  Lemberg 
1849.  Anton  Kornilowicz  wrote  4*  Life  and  Writings 
of  Karpinski,"  Wilnol827. 

MORNING  HYMN. 
"Kiedy  ranne  wstaja  zorze." 

When  the  morning  stars  are  rising, 
Earth  and  sea  thy  glories  praising, 
Join  all  nature's  voice  in  singing, 
Praise  to  thee,  Oh  God,  we're  bringing ! 

Man  on  whom  thou'st  poured  rich  treasure, 
Endless  bounties  without  measure, 
By  Thy  power  redeemed,  life  given, 
Why  not  praise  Thee,  God  of  heaven ! 

When  at  morn  I  first  awaken, 
On  my  lips  Thy  name  is  taken, 
And  I  call  on  God  profoundly, 
Then  I  seek  Him  all  around  me! 

Yesternight  were  many  taken, 
To  the  sleep  that  ne'er  shall  waken, 
While  our  ling' ring  breath  is  given — 
For  Thy  praise,  great  God  in  heaven! 

EVENING  HYMN. 

Through  the  past  day  our  behavior, 

With  mercy  accept  just  Savior, 
And  when  we  sink  to  dreamful  sleep, 

May  praise  of  Thee  our  visions  keep. 
8 


114       POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  POLAND. 

As  Thy  eyes  are  turned  upon  us, 
Day  and  night  are  looking  on  us, 

Where  feeble  and  weary  mortals, 
Wait  for  help  from  out  Thy  portals. 

Turn  away  the  dark  night's  terror, 
Save  us  Lord  from  shafts  of  error, 

Judge  and  Guardian  in  Thy  keeping, 
Have  us  waking,  have  us  sleeping. 


YEARNINGS  IN  THE  SPRING. 

Full  many  times  the  sun  has  come  and  gone 

And  favored  the  day  with  light ; 
But  from  my  life  all  sunshine  has  withdrawn 

Why  must  I  ever  walk  in  night? 

The  grain  is  shooting  up  so  fresh,  so  fair, 

Almost  the  heads  begin  to  show ; 
So  verdant  are  the  wide  fields  ev'rywhere, 

Why  does  my  precious  wheat  not  grow? 

Within  the  grove  sweet  sings  the  nightingale, 

Echoes  the  grove  its  melody; 
Gaily  the  birds  sing  in  the  woodland  and  vale, 

But  my  bird  does  not  sing  for  me! 

Many  flowers  have  sprung  from  the  moist  ground, 

After  a  reviving  shower; 
Bright  tinted  are  the  meadows  all  around, 

Oh!  why  springs  for  me  no  flower? 

How  long,  0  Spring !  shall  I  beseech  in  vain  ? 

Disconsolate  I  sigh  and  yearn ; 
While  my  sad  tears  have  bathed  the  earth  in  rain, 

For  this,  a  harvest  rich  return. 


KAKPINSKI.  115 


PEACE  THAT  VIRTUE  BRINGS. 

Whoever  paints  virtue  sad,  has  seen 

But  little  of  her  charms  serene; 

E'er  pleasantly  she  smiles  nor  sighs, 

Nor  turns  aside  her  lovely  eyes. 
Naught  can  the  deeps  of  her  calmness  stir, 
Fortune,  misfortune,  are  alike  to  her. 

In  vain  mishaps  to  work  her  ill 
Their  poisonous  darts  make  sharper  still; 
She  meets  them  as  the  steadfast  rock 
Receives  unmoved  the  sea  wave's  shock 
Or  as  the  fire  that  burns  with  ardent  glow 
In  gold's  bright  semblance  more  and  more  will  grow. 

His  country  Socrates  loved  well, 
And  for  its  cause  drank  poison  fell, 
Nor  felt  a  fear,  but  strong  and  brave 
To  friends  beside  him  counsel  gave; 
Anitus  grumbled  in  amaze  to  see 
E'en  death  could  not  annoy  that  spirit  free. 

Why  runs  he  with  distracted  air? 

Why  sadly  weeps  and  tears  his  hair? 

He  grieves  because  that  has  been  done 

For  which  no  help  is  'neath  the  sun. 
Let  him  a  hundred  years  lament,  'tis  vain; 
A  farthing's  worth  it  helps  not  to  complain. 

The  chain  in  ages  past  begun, 

Wrought  from  the  world's  swift  changes,  none; 

Can  it  undo  save  He  whose  hand 

Linked  it  together  as  He  planned? 
Why  grieve  then  for  what  is  or  for  what  was, 
Since  all  is  ruled  by  just,  eternal  laws? 


116       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Brief  are  our  lives  and  naught  we  know 
Of  the  to-morrow.     Since  tis  so, 
Why  should  we  borrow  care  or  sour 
With  needless  fears  a  single  hour? 
Gold's  worshipers  may  tremble  full  of  fear, 
No  cause  to  tremble  have  God's  children  dear. 

Upon  the  path  with  thorns  entwined, 
Fragrant  flowers  you'll  also  find: 
Then  let  us  forward  bravely  go, 
Nor  mind  a  little  pain,  although 
We  a're  stung  at  times,  it  is  said  a  wound 
Heals  quick  where  roses  without  thorns  are  found. 


WORONICZ.  117 


WORONICZ. 

JOHN  PAUL  WORONICZ  occupies  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  places  among  the  poets  of  Poland.  In 
genius  he  surpasses  many  of  his  contemporaries, 
characterized  by  the  purely  national  simplicity  of  the 
olden  times.  At  the  decline  of  the  old  epoch  he  comes 
in  as  a  new  prophet  of  other  times  and  other  peoples, 
dissimilar  in  the  outlook  of  the  present  generation,  but 
inimitable  and  incomparable.  He  did  no  homage  to 
the  new  conceptions,  innovations,  or  impressions  of  the 
age  he  lived  in,  drawing  his  subjects  from  historical 
elements  and  historical  reminiscences,  the  faith  of  his 
ancestors;  from  the  burning  feelings  of  the  purest 
patriotism  gushed  forth  his  poetical  inspirations,  and, 
like  a  true  bard  of  the  people,  he  was  their  interpreter 
and"  their  embodiment  in  their  grandest  national  rem- 
iniscences. 

In  many  respects  "Woronicz  is  allied  to  the  two 
greatest  bards  of  the  Holy  Scriptures.  lie  combined 
the  ardor  of  Ezekiel  with  the  tender  emotions  of  Jere- 
miah, and  it  can  be  truly  asserted  that  no  poet  was  ever 
more  impressed  with  them  than  Woronicz,  no  poet  bet- 
ter appreciated  them  than  he  did. 

The  feeling  of  national  pride  was  the  chief  theme  of 
his  lyrics,  but  their  tenor  is  sad  and  the  intrinsic  con- 
struction of  his  songs  is  solemn.  He  paid  but  little 
attention  to  their  smoothness,  correctness,  and  finish. 
Bold  and  manly  conceptions  are  so  molded  as  to 
purposely  give  them  the  form  of  perpetuity. 

In  his  "  Hymn  to  God  "  the  bard  sings  of  the  won- 
derful goodness  of  God  to  the  Polish  nation.  We  see 


118  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

here  as  if  an  apotheosis  of  the  whole  people  was  ex- 
alted to  the  highest  and  almost  gigantic  extent.  Sub- 
lime poetic  art  flows  into  a  deeply  affecting  and  re- 
ligious strain;  the  load  of  grief  is  raised  heavenward, 
where  buoyant  imagination  takes  its  flight  into  the 
highest  regions  of  sublimity;  for  it  represents  the 
whole  nation  chanting  the  covenant  made  with  God  for 
a  thousand  years. 

His  ' '  Temple  of  the  Sybil  "  is  an  epopee,  a  hymn 
of  Poland's  glory,  sung  in  praise  of  national  deeds  and 
patriotic  remembrances;  heroic  deeds  of  valor  are  un- 
earthed from  the  ruins  of  the  past — of  nine  hundred 
years — its  glories  and  its  trophies  are  the  historical 
themes  of  this  great  poetic  creation.  The  style  of  ex- 
pression, the  ardor,  and  the  extraordinary  boldness  of 
imagery  are  the  characteristics  of  the  poem.  Similar 
literary  qualities  characterize  also  his  "Lech,"  "The 
Diet  of  Wislica,"  and  "The  Dissertation  on  National 
Songs." 

Woronicz  was  born  in  1759,  in  the  province  of  Vol- 
hynia,  and  was  educated  at  the  Jesuit  College  in  Os- 
trowo.  He  joined  the  order  when  quite  young. 
On  account  of  hi*  unusual  talents  he  was  called  to  a 
professorship  at  that  college,  and  filled  his  duties  so 
well  that  he  received  commendations  of  not  only  his 
superiors,  but  also  thanks  of  those  whom  he  taught. 

After  the  abolition  of  the  order  in  1773  he  obtained 
a  situation  at  the  Mission  at  Warsaw,  and  giving  him- 
self up  to  arduous  labors  he  became  so  erudite  in  learn- 
ing that  he  commanded  the  respect  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished and  learned  heads  of  the  church.  Adam 
Ceciszewski,  the  bishop  of  Kijow,  as  also  of  Garnysz, 
the  bishop  of  Chelmno,  frequently  consulted  with  him 
in  regard  to  church  affairs.  In  this  way  the  young 


WOKONICZ.  119 

chaplain  paved  his  way  to  the  acquaintance  of  the  king, 
Stanislaus  Augustus.  In  1795  he  left  Warsaw,  and  was 
satisfied  with  the  modest  parsonage  at  Liwo,  and  with 
much  ardor  gave  himself  up  to  the  duties  of  a  country 
pastor.  From  Liwo  he  was  assigned  to  the  curacy  of  Casi- 
mir,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pulawy,  where  the  sight 
of  "The  Temple  of  the  Sybil"  filled  with  so  many 
national  souvenirs  and  relics  furnished  him  the  materi- 
als for  composing  the  celebrated  poem  of  that  name. 
The  society  of  -'Friends  of  the  Sciences"  at  "Warsaw 
made  him  a  member.  Being  again  assigned  to  a  new 
curacy  atPowsinie,  near  Warsaw,  and  before  he  had  yet 
settled  at  his  new  parish,  Frederick  August  called  him 
to  fill  the  office  of  a  dean  at  the  cathedral  at  Warsaw, 
and  a  counsellor  of  state.  In  this  new  situation  he 
soon  was  known  as  an  orator  of  great  distinction. 

When  the  remains  of  the  heroic  Prince  Poniatowski, 
who  perished  at  the  battle  of  Leipsic,  in  1813,  were 
brought  to  Warsaw,  Woronicz  delivered  a  funeral  ora- 
tion which  stands  up  to  this  day  as  the  highest  effort  of 
the  kind.  Afterward  the  Emperor  Alexander  I  made 
him  bishop  of  Cracow.  In  the  year  1829  he  was  as- 
signed to  the  archdiocese  of  Warsaw,  to  which  was  at- 
tached the  dignity  of  the  Primate,  and  while  holding 
that  high  office  he  presided  and  conducted  the  corona- 
tion of  Nicholas  I  as  the  King  of  Poland.  Soon  after 
Woronicz  left  Warsaw  for  Vienna  in  order  to  recover 
his  failing  health,  but  unhappily  soon  after  his  arrival 
there  he  died,  December  4,  1829. 

A  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  in  Cracow 
1832,  and  in  Leipsic  in  two  volumes  in  1833. 


120  POETS    AND    POETKY    OF    POLAND. 

FROM  THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  SYBIL.* 

Oracle  of  Hesperian  lands!  fame  crowns  thy  brow 

Of  vast  and  sacred  groves,  all-powerful  abbess  thou! 

To  whilom  lost  and  scattered  Trojan  bands,  once  more 

Hast  shown  the  welcome  headland  of  safe  fortified  shore. 

Later,  with  wonderful  mysteries  hast  led  apace 

To  glory  grand  and  great  their  ever-conquering  race. 

Now  having  forsaken  Cumsean  rock  renowned 

Thou  hast  on  Vistula's  shores  a  shining  temple  found ! 

Let  me  in  my  song  praise  of  thy  new  abode  proclaim, 

And  praise  of  the  people  long  extinct — and  of  their  name ! 

Here  shepherds  gather  from  all  the  heaths  by  winding  ways, 

Remind  one  of  the  olden,  happy,  vanished  days, 

That  he  possessed  the  name  of  fortunate,  whose  soul 

Could  not  the  whole  world  govern,  but  could  himself  control, 

Who  faithful  as  a  friend,  and  as  a  father  kind  and  wise 

Wiped  full  many  bitter  tears  from  sorrowing  eyes — 

His  riches  counted  he  in  sheaves  and  in  herds  alone — 

But  far  more  than  these  the  wealth  of  love  was  all  his  own. 

His  nature  serenely  high  was  also  gently  bland 

And  worthy  of  the  virtuous  Amarylla's  hand, 

With  whom  in  affection  and  peace  for  aye  lived  he, 

In  concord  sweet  unruffled  by  adversity. 

Craved  he  no  other's  goods — but  wholly  was  content, 

His  old  age  was  adorned  by  love  and  honors  blent, 

And  when  called  to  his  last  resting  place,  calmly  slept — 

Regretted  by  all  in  truth — by  all  sincerely  wept.f 

*  Temple  of  the  Sybil.  A  lofty  building  in  the  garden  of  Pulawy, 
erected  in  imitation  of  the  Temple  of  Tiburtine  Sybil  on  the  river 
Teverone,  in  Italy,  by  Princess  Isabella  Czartoryiska,  as  a  depository 
of  Polish  national  souvenirs  by  a  cove  of  the  river  Vistula,  and  at  the 
base  of  a  mountain  among  beautiful  trees.  It  bears  an  inscription : 
"  THE  PAST  OF  THE  FUTURE." 

f  Prince  Adam  Czartoryiski.  The  family  of  Czartoryiski  comes 
from  the  lineal  of  a  royal  family  of  Gedymines. 


WORONICZ.  121 

LOVE  AND  VIRTUE. 

He  that  can  feel  within  his  heart  true  love 
Is  virtuous  already — or  such  will  prove. 

THE   POLES. 

Poles!  my  dear  brethren  your  high  laws  are  all  the  same — 
Virtue  is  your  element  and  valor  is  your  name ! 


ARCHBISHOP  KRASICKI. 


KKAS1CKI.  123 


KRASICKI. 

IGNATZ  KRASICKI,  the  celebrated  archbishop  and 
poet,  is  an  acknowledged  representative  of  his  period. 
He  was  not  one  of  those  geniuses  who  have  their  mind's 
eye  fixed  upon  their  own  greatness  and  glory  in  the 
distant  future;  on  the  contrary  he  was  a  true  citizen, 
endeavoring  in  the  happiest  possible  manner  to  lift  up, 
not  himself,  but  his  fellow-countrymen  and  the  age  he 
lived  in.  If  even  Mother  Nature  had  not  fitted  him 
with  that  facility  and  pleasant  ways,  his  own  good  heart 
would  have  led  him  to  seek  the  way  to  conquer  super- 
stition, bad  taste,  and  especially  the  carelessness  and 
indifference  to  learning.  He  appeared  on  the  stage 
exactly  in  the  right  time,  when  sciences  in  Poland  had 
not  yet  assumed  a  definable  shape,  and  of  course  had 
not  reached  the  point  of  desired  amplification.  The 
spirit  of  philosophy  of  the  eighteenth  century,  with  its 
erroneous  teachings,  was  in  the  ascendant;  but  Krasicki 
overcame  that  difficulty  by  boldly  yet  pleasantly  point- 
ing out  a  different  and  a  better  way.  Although  he 
himself  had  been  brought  up  under  its  baneful  influ- 
ences, he  was  able  by  his  writing  to  gradually  reinstate 
the  old-time  customs,  faith,  and  manners  of  his 
ancestors. 

Krasicki  occupied  a  high  place  in  Polish  literature. 
He  was  very  witty,  and  although  he  did  not  display 
great  creative  powers  in  his  comic  composition,  he  had 
a  way  of  his  own  to  sing  with  the  harmony  of  a  bird, 
adding  to  it  a  precision  and  a  consummate  finish.  Being 
an  excellent  judge  of  the  human  heart,  he  had  a  happy 
faculty  of  seeing  men  and  things  exactly  as  they  were; 


124  POETS    AND    POETKY    OF    POLAND. 

hence  he  was  pertinent  and  practical.  He  was  an 
excellent  delineator  of  the  faults  and  foibles  of  the 
living  pictures  of  society. 

Among  the  poetical  works  of  Krasicki  his  satires 
are  entitled  to  the  first  place  and  consideration;  except 
their  pungency  they  have  no  real  bitterness  in  them, 
and  always  a  tendency  to  correct  the  existing  state  of 
things.  In  them  he  paints  in  a  humorous  manner  the 
customs,  ways,  and  manners  so  precisely  that  such  a 
description  was  something  very  uncommon  in  those 
days.  While  castigating  the  ways  and  manners  he 
invariably  brought  up  an  ideal  how  they  should  be.  If 
he  ridiculed  anything  funny,  sluggish,  or  what  deserved 
reprimand,  he  at  the  same  time  set  forth  types  worthy 
of  imitation.  By  such  course  he  plainly  proved  that 
whoever  undertakes  to  point  out  others'  faults  he  must 
love  them. 

His  satires  are  of  two  different  kinds  —  some  touch 
the  weaknesses  and  defects  of  the  humanity  at  large, 
as  for  instance  "Malice,  Hidden  and  Open,"  "The 
Happiness  of  Rogues,"  and  "  Drunkenness  ";  in  others 
again  he  points  out  the  national  shortcomings,  as  in 
"The  Fashionable  Wife,"  "The  Journey,"  "Prodi- 
gality," "Praise  of  Age,"  and  "Court  Life."  Some, 
however,  contain  irony  and  sarcasm,  as  "The  Spoiled 
World." 

His  "  Monachomachia,  or  the  War  of  the  Monks," 
was  written  when  he  and  Voltaire  lived  together  at  the 
Palace  of  Sans-Souci.  It  was  a  happy  occurrence  that 
when  Krasicki  embraced  Voltaire's  philosophical  ideas 
he  did  not  reach  as  deeply  as  Voltaire  himself.  Having 
been  born  in  the  southern  part  of  Russia-Poland  he 
was  by  nature  true  to  himself,  and  did  not  possess  that 
virulence  of  character.  Being  himself  an  Ecclesiastic, 


KRASICKI.  125 

he  knew  the  defects  and  digressions  of  the  clergy,  and 
inflicted  his  castigations  accordingly.  In  this  produc- 
tion lie  distinguishes  himself  in  pleasant  but  harmless 
wit,  nice  imagery,  accuracy,  and  grace  of  expression. 
Throwing  the  mantle  of  fun,  and  even  ludicrousness, 
over  high  thoughts,  the  author  exerted  great  power  and 
influence  in  that  direction.  "When  it  was  ascertained 
that  his  intent  was  misunderstood  and  misconstrued, 
and  looked  upon  as  a  lampoon  on  the  clergy,  and  that 
many  minds  were  vitiated  thereat,  Krasicki  composed 
"  Antimonachomachia  " — sort  of  a  revocation  of  the 
former  poem;  but  "  Monachomachia  "  had  neverthe- 
less the  desired  effect  in  correcting  the  existing  evils. 
The  subject  of  the  poem  was  the  confederation  of  the 
clergy  against  the  author  of  the  offensive  literary 
production. 

"  Myszeis  "  is  a  playful  poem  containing  within  it  a 
hidden  moral  and  satirical  comparisons  in  regard  to 
national  defects.  This  contention  for  the  preeminence, 
or  we  should  say  "Who  shall  be  greatest  ?"  between 
rats  and  mice,  means  probably  the  old  political  wrangles 
in  Poland,  —  misunderstandings  or  quarrels  between 
the  Senate  and  the  Chivalry  of  those  days. 

Besides  the  satirical  writings  of  Krasicki  we  can 
place  his  Letters,  —  the  subject  matter  and  the  style  of 
which  very  much  approach  his  satires.  These,  being 
written  in  verse  after  French  models,  palpably  remind 
us  of  the  haste  and  defects  of  the  literature  of  that 
period. 

In  his  "  Doswiadczynski "  (the  man  of  experience), 
a  moral  tale  written  in  prose,  Krasicki  paints  the  social 
defects  of  that  time.  Thoughtlessness,  prodigality, 
litigation,  bribery,  the  law  intrigues,  court  eloquence, 
are  pictured  in  vivid  colors.  This  jocular  but  highly 


126       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

interesting  production  hits  somebody  or  something 
every  time,  and  shows  in  the  author  an  uncommon 
talent  and  discrimination  of  how  and  where  to  casti- 
gate national  blemishes. 

From  all  of  Krasicki's  writings  his  Fables  were 
perhaps  the  most  popular;  they  all  contain  truths, 
expressed  with  great  conciseness  and  wit,  comprising 
at  the  same  time  deep  meaning,  sound  practical  philos- 
ophy, replete  with  the  spirit  of  reflection,  humanity, 
and  frequently  patriotism.  They  are  all  short,  prac- 
tical tales,  allegories,  or  witty  anecdotes.  "The  War 
of  Chocim  "  Krasicki  composed  to  show  that  a  good 
epopee  could  be  written  in  the  Polish  language. 

His  "Pan  Podstoli"*  we  consider  a  valuable 
depository,  and  it  stands  as  a  living  monument  of 
Polish  ancestry.  In  this  work  Krasicki  rises  higher 
in  philosophical  tendency  than  any  painters  of  char- 
acters or  novel-writers  have  ever  led  us.  In  the 
representation  of  Mr.  Podstoli  he  did  not  follow  any 
especial  ideal,  or  the  originality  of  any  person;  he 
simply  and  plainly  painted  a  characteristic  portrait  of 
a  citizen,  husband,  father,  and  neighbor,  who  in  the 
fullness  of  his  own  and  his  family's  happiness  con- 
quers old  impediments  and  defends  himself  from  the 
new  ones;  prizing  knowledge,  liberal  in  his  household, 
generous  in  his  frugality,  an  indulgent  moralist,  glad 
in  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  sincere  in  his  moderation, 
and  awakening  in  every  heart  a  longing  desire  for  hap- 
piness similar  to  his  own. 

Krasicki  is  the  man  of  his  epoch,  not  only  of  the 
age  he  lived  in,  but  for  all  ages  to  come,  so  long  as  we 
will  think,  feel,  and  write  in  Polish.  Krasicki  had 

*  Under-carver — An  honorary  title  among  the  ancient  Polish 
nobility. 


KRASICKI.  127 

within  him  every  quality  to  raise  him  tcf  so  high  a 
sphere.  He  possessed  immense  creative  powers,  an 
original  mind,  and  original  ways  of  looking  at  things,— 
qualities  which  in  reality  constitute  a  true  poet.  He 
created  a  sphere  to  which  he  attracted  the  people 
without  any  resistance  on  their  part, —  so  much  so  that 
his  poetry  became  a  necessary  element  in  their 
existence. 

The  great  archbishop  stands  on  the  borders  of  the 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries;  but  the  creation 
and  preparation  of  a  boundless  poetical  sphere,  and 
bringing  a  general  use  of  his  ideas  into  different 
strata  of  society,  make  him  a  poet  not  only  of  his  age, 
but  also  of  the  present  time. 

Krasicki  was  born  in  1734  at  Dubiecko,  now  in  the 
southern  part  of  Russia-Poland.  After  finishing  his 
studies  at  Lemberg  he  resided  at  Rome.  Returning  to 
his  country  he  became  a  canon,  and  then  a  curate  at 
Przemysl.  When  hardly  thirty  years  old  he  presided 
over  the  Ecclesiastical  Tribunal  at  Lublin,  and  it  was 
not  long  after  that  the  king,  Stanislaus  Augustus,  made 
him  coadjutor  of  the  old  bishop,  Grocho \vski.  and 
when  he  died  in  1767  Krasicki  succeeded  him  as  the 
Bishop  ofWarmia,  with  the  title  of  a  prince.  In  1772, 
after  the  first  partition  of  Poland,  when  Warmia,  with 
the  western  part  of  Prussia,  came  under  the  reign  of 
Prussia,  Krasicki  became  a  vassal  to  Frederick  II,  who 
having  a  sort  of  penchant  to  surround  himself  with  , 
learned  men  took  him  to  his  side  and  invited  him  to 
reside  in  his  palace  of  Sans-Souci.  When,  after  the  last 
partition  of  Poland,  a  considerable  part  of  the  king- 
dom of  Poland  came  under  the  Prussian  dominion, 
Krasicki  was  made  the  archbishop  of  Gniezno,  in  1795, 
and  occupied  that  high  place  till  his  death.  In  1800 


128  POETS   AND    POETRY    OF   POLAND. 

he  was  made  a  member  of  the  Society  of  the  Friends 
of  Learning  at  Warsaw.     He  died  in  1801. 

All  his  works  were  published  at  Warsaw  in  1803  and 
1804,  in  ten  volumes;  in  Paris,  1830,  ten  volumes  in 
one;  in  Leipsic,  1834.  Besides  his  encyclopaedic  col- 
lection of  the  most  important  information,  alphabet- 
ically arranged,  his  comedies  "The  Liar,"  "The  Poli- 
tician," and  "  Solenizant"  (the  solemnizerof  his  birth- 
day) were  published  under  a  pseudonym  of  Michael 
Mowinski. 

THE  WAR  OF  CHOCIM. 

CANTO  I. 

Long  in  the  murderous  rolls  of  conquering  fame 
The  Osmanlis, — scourge  of  God, — in  proud  success, 

Had  triumph'd.     Devastation,  blood  and  flame 
They  scatter'd  in  their  fury,  merciless. 

Unsated  even  by  slaughter  they  became 
Prouder  in  power, — encouraged  to  oppress; 

Half  the  wide  world  had  recognized  their  sway, 

And  their  stern  scepter  bade  the  rest  obey. 

Fall'n  Greece!  on  thy  majestic  ruins,  high 
The  haughty  Moslem  rears  his  tyrant  throne ; 

How  many  desolated  nations  lie 

In  dust ! — how  many  suffering  kingdoms  groan ! 

Towns,  towers  in  ashes  sink ;  by  his  stern  eye 
Dismay'd,  their  terror  trembling  millions  own, 

Shuddering  in  dread,  when  with  half-stifled  breath 

They  see  him  wave  the  scimitar  of  death. 

Before  him  fell  the  holy  city's  walls. 

Thy  daughters,  Zion !  wept  in  slavery  long ; 
Whelm 'd  in  the  dust  thy  palaces  and  halls. 

No  more  Mount  Calvary's  sacred  scenes  among 


KKASICKI.  129 

Kneel  pious  pilgrims; — drear  desertion  palls 

The  Savior's  sacred  tomb;  an  impious  throng 
Insulting  trampled  where  to  fallen  man 
Salvation's  marvelous  mystery  began. 

The  valiant  Osman  then  the  throne  possess'd, — 
Osman,  whose  conquests  like  the  ocean  spread; 

To  daring  deeds  adventurously  he  press'd, 
And  joy'd  his  sire's  ambitious  path  to  tread. 

His  busy  love  of  conquest  found  no  rest, 
But  in  devoting  every  Christian  head. 

Impious!  to  deem  a  tyrant's  peevish  rod  » 

Could  raze  or  blast  what  has  been  raised  by  God. 

Such  thoughts  he  cherishes;  the  powers  of  Hell 
Fan  his  ambitious  flame:  before  his  eyes 

They  bid  fresh  wreaths  of  shadowy  laurels  dwell — 
A  filmy  web;  though  victory's  heedless  cries 

Ring  in  his  ears  like  music,  sorrow's  swell. 

Seems  joy,  while  in  his  soul  stern  thoughts  arise. 

'Twas  thus  deluded  warrior  bands  became 

A  scourge  to  nations, — to  the  world  a  shame. 

So  from  the  palace  happy  quiet  flies, — 

The  seat  of  peace  is  in  the  shelter'd  cot; 
When  cares  disturb  the  mind,  sleep  shuns  the  eyes, — 

Sleep,  not  the  monarch's,  but  the  peasant's  lot: 
Though  on  a  couch  of  down  proud  Osman  lies, 

Repose  his  weary  eye-lids  visits  not. 
'Twas  dawn, — the  star  of  morn  palely  shed 
Her  beams,  when  o'er  him  slumbers  faintly  spread. 

The  great  Arch-fiend  approach'd  him, — he  of  old 
Hurl'd  down  from  highest  heaven, — who  bids  abound 

On  earth  both  guilt  and  guile.     A  cloth  of  gold, 
From  distant  India  brought,  encurtain'd  'round 


130  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

The  tyrant's  bed: — in  form  of  human  mould 

The  daemon  wrapp'd  him;  and  with  human  sound, 
While  the  false  prophet's  visible  shape  he  took, 
Thus  to  the  deeply-slumbering  monarch  spoke: 

"  Nay !  on  a  soft  and  an  effeminate  bed, 
This  is  no  fitting  time,  my  son !  to  taste 

Oblivious  sleep.     Aurora  blushing  red 

Heralds  the  morn;  the  pale  stars  sink  to  rest; 

The  sun  uprises  bright: — Awake!  and  lead 

Those  conquering  bands  who  wait  thy  high  behest: 

Awake !  and  let  thy  great  example  tell, 

Sloth  cannot  in  the  minds  of  heroes  dwell. 

"  Awake!  let  them  behold  in  thee  whate'er 
Befits  a  conquering  nation's  monarch ;  scorn 

Of  sloth;  delight  the  steely  mail  to  wear; 
A  wakeful  eye  anticipating  morn: — 

Thine  arm'd  host  waits  thee,  nought  is  wanting  there 
To  valor,  but  a  leader;  fierce  they  burn 

For  the  wild  joy  of  battle: — thus  of  yore 

Their  sires  won  fame;  and  lo!  they  pant  for  more. 

"  By  glory  led,  whose  brightly  beaming  light 
Shines  all  propitious  by  the  hero's  side, 

Each  step  is  certain  conquest ;  to  the  fight 
A  hero  leading  heroes ;  terror's  tide 

Shall  whelm  the  Christians;  and  thy  power  shall  blight 
Each  bud  of  hope  for  them;  thy  falchion  dyed 

With  blood  shall  on  the  Faithful  joy  bestow, — 

That  sword  which  flashes  death  upon  the  foe." 

As  when  the  savage  boar  outstretch'd  in  sleep, 
In  his  dark  covert  hidden,  hears  the  horn 

Of  the  sharp  hunter,  and  from  slumbers  deep 

Awakes  in  bursting  wrath,  and  rage,  and  scorn, — 


KRASICKL  131 

Bristled  and  panting  see  the  monstei;  leap 

Forth  from  his  den;  foaming  and  fury-torn 
He  dashes  tow'rds  the  sounds, — so  Osman  sprung, 
While  round  his  dreaming  eyes  the  vision  hung. 

And  fierce  and  fatal  were  the  threats  which  call'd 
His  troops  around  him  then;  the  battle  cloud 

Spread  darkly  gathering.     Armies  were  enthrall'd; 
Viziers  and  Agas  at  the  mandates  loud, 

And  seldom-check'd  Pachas,  by  fear  appall'd, 

Brought  their  attendant  hordes,  and  meekly  bow'd; 

While  scarce  one  welcoming,  one  approving  glance 

Escaped  the  frowning  despot's  countenance. 

He  stood  among  them  like  a  pyramid 

O'er-darkling  with  its  shade  the  plain  around, 

And  thus  unveil'd  his  daring  purpose, — hid 
Till  then ;  while  at  the  valor-stirring  sound, 

Prostration  mute,  and  eager  rapture  bid 

Meet  utterance : — "  Thou,  the  Koran's  moat  and  mound, 

Stretch  out  thy  blade ;  thy  foes  shall  pass  away. 

And  prostrate  earth  adore  the  Prophet's  sway. 

"  Nobly  thou  hast  begun,  and  so  proceed ! 

Let  thy  sword  herald  on  the  law  divine; — 
Destroy  the  impugners  of  the  Prophet's  creed, 

But  on  the  faithful  let  thy  favor  shine. 
Thy  glory  shall  encircle  earth ;  the  meed 

Of  pious  triumphs, — thou  shalt  raise  a  shrine 
To  victory.     And  as  Rome  was  victory's  queen, 
Stamboul  shall  now  become  what  Rome  has  been." 

Skinder  Pacha  was  there, — 'twas  he  who  won 

Cecora's  bloody  day, — and  thus  he  gave 
His  monarch  humble  counsel:  "  Thy  proud  throne 

Towers  above  all  thrones,  and  thus  thy  slave 


132  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Presumes  t'  advise.     Since  Poland's  bravest  son 

Sleeps  mouldering  in  his  melancholy  grave, 
Be  Poland  thy  first  spoil:  for  Poland  lies 
Crouch 'd  at  thy  feet, — and  at  thy  frown  she  dies. 

"  Zolkiewski  was  their  chief:  his  fame  in  war 

Was  mighty:  toils  and  time  had  made  him  gray: 

His  band  look'd  proudly  on  their  country's  star; 
His  countless  band;  and  in  the  glimmering  ray 

Of  faded  recollections  twinkling  far 

Sought  hope !     Thou  gav'st  them  to  us  as  a  prey, — 

Thou,  Prophet !  whom  they  dared  blaspheme.   They  fell, 
*  As  ever  falls  the  insulting  infidel. 

"  And  now  dismay  has  crowded  on  defeat, 
And  terror  holds  them  in  its  heavy  chains; 

Send  forth  thy  mandate,  and  they  shall  retreat, 
O'erpower'd  and  scatter'd,  as  across  the  plains 

An  atom  in  a  whirlwind.     It  were  meet 

To  whelm  in  dust  their  wasted,  weak  remains, — 

Their  wives,  their  children,  slavery's  bonds  await, — 

All  yield  to  fate, — and  they  must  yield  to  fate. 

"  They  have  despised  thee  in  their  insolent  pride; 

They  have  rebell'd  against  thy  sovereign  will; 
Laugh'd  at  thy  awful  frowns ;  and  turn'd  aside 

From  thy  bright  smiles:  and  undespairing  still, 
Their  obstinate  zeal  supports  them.     Chiefs  divide, 

And  factions  tear  them ;  yet  by  force  or  skill 
They  hang  together:  and  these  stubborn  foes 
The  only  barrier  to  thy  sway  oppose." 

Thus  the  fierce  Skinder  spoke:  their  lord's  behest 
Anxious  the  whole  divan  awaited.     He 

The  wild,  rude  anger  of  his  eye  suppress'd; 
While  bursting  joy,  dim  dreams  of  victory, 


KRASICKL  133 

And  restless  passions  struggled  in  his  breast. 

He  bow'd  assent;  and  with  proud  dignity 
Threw  round  him  a  dark  glance  of  light  afar, 
And  utter'd,  "  War,  my  warriors!  nought  but  war!" 

He  said  that  he  himself  his  troops  would  head, 
And  lead  them  on  to  triumph.     At  the  word 

A  murmuring  concert-tone  of  gladness  spread, 
And  loud  eulogiums  on  their  valiant  lord; 

For  armies  when  by  hero-monarchs  led, 

Know  no  defeat.     A  sultan's  self-drawn  sword 

Flashes  with  victory.     A  chieftain  brave 

Makes  all  his  followers  spurn  the  gaping  grave. 

Then  to  the  camp  vast  crowds  of  warriors  throng, 
From  every  quarter  summon'd.     Shouts  of  joy 

And  the  gay  music  of  the  battle-song 

Bid  the  heart  leap,  and  light  the  ebon  eye. 

There  young  and  old,  children  and  sires,  among 
The  gathering  band  are  mix'd  tumultuously; 

And  many  an  oath  is  heard,  and  many  a  vow 

To  Allah  and  the  Prophet  utter'd  now. 

And  o'er  the  palace  portal  high  unroll'd, 

The  Prophet's  banner,  deck'd  with  pearls  and  gems, 

Floated.     It  was  a  sheet  of  broider'd  gold, 
Sparkling  with  jewels  fit  for  diadems, 

Which  dazzle  when  their  brightness  we  behold: 
And  the  sublimest  of  all  apothegms: 

"  There  is  no  god  but  God, — and  Mahomet 

His  Prophet  is,"  on  the  bright  field  was  set. 

And  proudly  to  the  wind  its  folds  it  flung, 

And  million  voices  blended  all  around; 
The  clashing  cymbals  high  aloft  were  flung. 

The  spahi's  shouts,  and  the  strange  babel-sound 


134       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Of  countless  voices  uttering  joy,  o'er-rung 

All  heaven ;  the  war-steeds  stamp'd  the  dusty  ground, 
Eager  for  battle.     Osman  bent  his  head, 
And  to  the  crowds  the  white-lock'd  Mufti  said: 

"Ye  have  been  chosen,  Faithful!  from  the  crowd 
Of  nations,  sacred  duties,  mighty  deeds 

Triumphant  to  accomplish.     Victory  loud 
Calls  to  the  noble  strife  where  victory  leads ; 

Heaven  blesses  Ismael's  sons;  their  banner  proud, 
With  glory  seated  on  its  shrine,  proceeds; 

The  Prophet's  standard  blinds  the  Infidel, 

And  God's  bright  smiles  of  light  around  it  dwell. 

"Yes,  Osman!  glorious  thy  reward  shall  be! 

Bright  as  the  dreams  that  play  around  thee  now 
Shall  be  the  future's  dazzling  victory; 

And  high  as  night's  proud  stars  thy  fame  shall  glow 
O'er  thy  ruin'd  foes.     At  thy  decree 

Cecora's  scatter'd  fragments  swift  shall  go 
Into  oblivion.     Thou  shalt  reign  alone, 
And  all  the  prostrate  world  thy  mandates  own." 

Then  the  mysterious  Koran-tome  he  took, 
And  read  its  dark  and  deleterious  page ; 

Mingling  new  cheats  with  that  all-cheating  book, 
He  pours  his  blasphemies ;  then  strove  to  engage, 

With  a  devout  but  most  dissembling  look, 
Heaven's  smiles  upon  the  tyrant, — to  assuage 

Heaven's  frowns;  and  on  the  chiefs,  and  on  the  crowd, 

Saints*,  Mulahs,  and  Imams,  pour'd  blessings  loud. 

Then  to  his  palace  he  return'd,  and  soon 

Warriors  from  every  quarter  join'd  his  train; 

From  whence  Euphrates,  lighted  by  the  moon, 

Bursts  through  his  cliif-bound  way;  and  from  the  plain 

*  Santons. 


KRASICKI.  135 

Where  rolls  the  yellow  Tigris  'neath  the  noon, 

Rushing  in  rapid  depths  toward  the  main; 
And  from  the  jagged  and  the  granite  shores, 
Where  fierce  Araxes  through  the  hard  rocks  roars. 

And  whence  the  solemn  Nilus  rolls  his  tide, 

Enriching  at  each  step  Egyptian  lands, 
To  where  in  seven-mouth'd  eloquence  of  pride 

He  breaks  impatient  from  his  earthly  bands 
Into  the  Ocean's  bridal  bed.     The  wide 

And  scorch'd  Sahara,  and  Numidia's  sands, 
Sent  forth  their  sons,  and  Ethiopia's  eye 
Look'd  proudly  on  her  troops  of  ebony. 

From  Yemen  came  a  sturdy  shepherd  race, 

Bronzed  in  the  fierceness  of  the  burning  sun; — 

The  tribes  of  Fez,  who  deem  it  a  disgrace 

To  spare  or  sympathize  where  gore-streams  run; 

From  Mecca;  from  Medina — hallow'd  place! 
Scene  of  the  Prophet's  birth:  from  Lebanon 

And  from  Mount  Carmel's  sides; — impatient  all, 

Panting  for  fame,  and  reckless  though  they  fall. 

But  who  can  count  them, — who, — when  all  array'd 
They  pass'd  before  the  sultan's  raptured  eye? 

He  saw  his  million  vassals  who  display'd 

Their  gorgeous  pomp;  and  hope's  light  ecstasy, 

Scepters  and  crowns  and  mighty  kingdoms  laid 
At  his  proud  feet  by  victory.     To  the  sky 

Tower'd  his  ambitious  thoughts;  his  frowns  he  hurl'd 

And  pour'd  his  threats  of  insult  o'er  the  world. 

HOW   MUCH   TO   DRINK. 

You  may  drink  of  wine  three  times  at  a  feast, 
The  first  small  glass  won't  hurt  you  in  the  least. 
The  second  you  drink  to  the  health  of  friends, 
And  if  you  stop  there,  all  pleasantly  ends. 


136      POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

But  suppose  you  drink  the  third  to  the  guest, 
Be  sure  that  at  this  point  you  will  rest  — 
For  the  fourth  begets  a  coarseness  of  speech, 
Words  rude  and  vulgar  your  converse  will  reach; 
At  the  fifth  your  anger  is  uncontrolled, 
Loudly  you  talk  —  not  knowing  where  to  hold; 
And  if,  after  all  these,  a  sixth  succeed, 
You  are  left  in  a  wretched  state  indeed; 
And  one's  perception  need  not  be  acute 
To  see  you've  reached  the  level  of  a  brute ! 

DRUNKENNESS. 

A    SATIRE. 

Where  were  you?     I  can  hardly  go.     A  re  you  sick?    Yes, 

You  know  I  never  humor  myself  to  excess; 

But  such  a  headache  as  I've  had  words  can't  convey. 

You  must  have  surely  had  a  gay  time  yesterday  — 

That's  why  you  are  sad  to-day,  how  was  it?     I  think, 

After  a  luscious  meal,  water  is  good  to  drink. 

Nay,  not  so  good  my  friend, —  and  may  that  man  be  cursed 

(I'll  tell  you  how  it  was)  who  used  that  proverb  first. 

Day  before  yesterday  I  got  drunk  —  wife's  birthday; 

I  regret  it  not  —  that  occasion  should  be  gay. 

'Tis  a  great  day  you  know  —  nor  is  it  very  wrong 

To  raise  your  neighbor's  spirits  —  wife  was  full  of  song. 

We  had  lots  of  wine,  and  its  quality  was  prime, 

So  you  can  bet  we  drank  and  we  had  a  big  time. 

Till  morn  the  feast  continued,  about  noon  I  woke  — 

Head  like  a  chunk  of  lead  —  to  cough  and  spit  and  choke; 

Madame  proposed  tea,  but  that's  sickening,  you  know; 

Somehow,  'twas  but  a  chance,  I  passed  a  drug  store.     So 

I  took  a  drink  of  bitters,  as  anybody  would, 

Then  I  drank  again,  thinking  it  would  do  me  good. 


KRASICKI.  137 

Still  sick,  again  I  drank,  then  I  felt  better  quite, 

And  thus,  then,  happened  two  guests  of  yesternight; 

Under  such  conditions  a  treat  I  could  not  shun — 

And  then  how  can  one  treat  and  yet  himself  drink  none?  » 

That  wouldn't  do.     I  drank,  it  happened,  so  you  see, 

The  liquor  was  A  No.  1,  and  hot  as  it  could  be. 

That's  good  for  the  stomach,  and  as  my  good  luck  willed, 

The  nausea  was  stopped  —  that  dreadful  headache  stilled. 

Well,  again,  to  happy  home  with  my  friends  I  went, 

We  found  dinner  ready,  and  it  was  excellent. 

Mr.  Andrew  said  temperance  was  a  thing  he  prized, 

Aye,  long  live  temperance!  drunkenness  we  despised. 

At  hand  stood  the  bottle,  the  cork  beside  it  laid, 

Mr.  Albert  of  dyspepsia  somewhat  afraid, 

After  the  ham  eaten,  proposed  a  little  wine. 

One  or  two  glasses  drank  for  the  health  is  fine, 

Especially  when  the  wine  is  pure  and  past  its  youth. 

We  acceded  all  to  such  self-evident  truth  — 

Talked  of  manly  spirit,  of  bold  and  grand  designs, 

Talked  of  gold  and  silver,  of  digging  in  the  mines. 

And  so  the  bottle  dried  up  —  how?  we  scarcely  knew, 

And  so  another  came  —  and  while  our  ardor  grew, 

Disappeared  the  third,  the  fourth,  and  then  the  fifth  came  on, 

Then  the  sixth  and  seventh  and  eighth  and  the  tenth  was  gone! 

And  when  our  arguments  grew  louder  and  more  free, 

Mr.  Andrew  dared  to  fling  the  name  of  fellow  at  me. 

I,  a  fellow!  I'll  teach  you  not  to  be  so  bold  — 

At  me  he  goes,  and  I  at  him,  we  took  fierce  hold. 

Albert  interposed,  and  the  servants  next  appeared, 

I  really  do  not  know  how  the  quarrel  cleared  — 

Certes  it  is  a  bottle  was  broken  on  my  head, 

Be  drunkenness  below  to  darkest  regions  sped ! 

What  is  there  in  it?     There  is  trouble,  strife  and  pain, 

Nausea,  bruises,  plasters  —  these  are  its  only  gain. 

Well  said:  a  pastime  'tis  to  which  the  lowest  cling, 

An  upright  man  will  scorn  it  as  a  shameless  thing. 


138       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

All  sorts  of  feuds  and  trouble  from  its  reign  outcome  — 

Mem'ry  grows  dull  —  reasoning  powers  grow  numb; 

Health  suffers,  and  its  victim  hastens  to  life's  brink. 

Just  look  upon  a  man  who  is  a  slave  to  drink! 

A  man  but  in  appearance  —  really  a  brute. 

When  a  man  is  drunk  'tis  fitting  to  compute 

Him  with  senseless  cattle — justice,  not  abuse. 

If  heaven  thought  fit  to  place  wine  here  for  man's  use, 

It  was  to  help  him,  not  to  incapacitate  — 

The  use  of  God's  great  gifts  should  e'er  be  moderate. 

Though  dumb  brutes  are  senseless  we  oft  are  shamed  by  them. 

Intemperance  is  a  sin  that  animals  condemn 

In  men  who  drink  but  not  alone  to  slack  their  thirst. 

Brutes  drink  what  is  needful  —  man  who  calls  them  accurst 

Js  worse  indeed  than  they  are,  more  abject  and  low. 

Heed  not  the  wounds  and  plasters ;  the  meed  of  guilt  is  —  woe ! 

Far  greater  punishment  than  those  bruises  is  meet 

For  those  that  keep  transgressing  in  their  blind  conceit. 

Knowledge,  which  distinguishes  man  from  animal, 

They  often  disregard  for  causes  small. 

What  gain  is  sufficient  to  balance  its  neglect; 

For  its  loss  what  profits  sufficient  can  collect. 

In  those  who  commit  not  excesses  base  and  vain 

You'll  find  good  sense  and  comfort — and  freedom  from  all  pain. 

See  the  results  that  with  temperance  agree  — 

Perfect  health,  cloudless  brain,  and  a  mind  gay  and  free; 

Strength  exceptional,  and  energy  for  their  tasks; 

Property  in  order,  in  smiles  their  household  basks; 

Cash  to  meet  each  needful  and  sensible  expense,— 

These  are  the  inducements  to  follow  temperance; 

And  aught  but  total  abstinence  is  risky, 

It  is:  Good-bye  —  I  go  to  take  a  drink  of  whisky. 


KRASICKL  139 

FABLES. 
THE  KING. 

A  certain  king  there  was  of  projects  grand 
Would  register  the  wise  ones  of  the  land, 
The  names  likewise  of  all  the  happy  found, 
And  set  the  scribes  to  search  the  kingdom  round. 
The  seeker  for  the  happy  found  but  few, 
But  great  the  multitude  of  wise  ones  grew, 
So  great  the  scribe  beheld  his  labor  vain, 
No  paper  left  the  number  to  contain ! 

THE  LAZY  OXEN. 

The  first  commission  of  an  ill 

Delight  is  no  less; 
'Tis  in  the  effect  it  brings  about 

That  lies  the  bitterness. 
As  easily  is  proven  by 
This  most  veracious  history. 

In  spring  the  oxen  all  refused 

To  plough  the  grassy  plain ; 
When  autumn  came  they  would  not  haul 

From  out  the  fields  the  grain. 
In  winter,  being  scarce  of  bread, 
They  knocked  the  oxen  on  the  head. 

THE  MOSQUITO  AND  THE  FLY. 

If  we  must  fly  at  all,  I  know 

We  should  soar  neither  high  nor  low, 
Mosquito  said,  who,  buzzing  by, 

Saw  in  a  pail  a  drowning  fly. 
And  sadly  he  bemoaned  its  fate, 

That  it  had  not  been  fortunate, 
And,  like  himself,  had  wings  to  fly 

Where'er  he  willed,  or  low  or  high, 


140       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

And  mourning  o'er  its  fate  he  turned, 
Fell  in  the  candle  and  was  burned. 

THE  BOYS  AND  THE  FROGS. 

y 

At  evening  a  small  lake  beside 

A  group  of  boys  with  hop  and  stride 
.     Watching  to  see  the  frogs,  ran  by; 
And  when  a  frog  with  motion  spry 

Popped  up,  knowing  of  naught  to  dread, 
They  dealt  a  blow  upon  its  head 

Their  love  of  sport  to  gratify. 

But  one  frog,  bolder  than  the  rest, 

With  courage  thus  the  boys  addressed, 
,    *  The  while  he  rose  into  their  sight: 

"  You'd  better  stop, — '-it  is  not  right 

For  you  to  play  the  way  you  do ; 
It  is  but  senseless  sport  for  you, 

For  us  'tis  death,  or  wounds  and  fright." 

THE  RAM  AND  THE  JACKASS. 

The  ass  complained  in  moving  words 

It  was  a  shame  and  sin 
To  cast  him  from  the  stable  out 

And  let  the  ram  within ; 
But  while  the  loudest  were  his  moans 
Thus  spake  the  ram  in  bitter  tones : 

"  Be  quiet,  pray,  my  long-eared  friend; 

With  anger  be  less  rife, 
A  butcher's  standing  by  my  side 

With  ready,  sharpened  knife. 
Comfort  yourself  with  this  conceit; 
'  Mankind  will  not  eat  jackass'  meat! ' ' 


KKASICKI.  141 


Betwixt  the  standish  and  the  pen 

A  dreadful  quarrel  rose, 
Which  came  to  words  of  bitter  kind, 

Black  looks  and  almost  blows, 
As  to  which  penned  a  certain  fable 
That  lay  just  written  on  the  table. 

Its  author  in  the  meanwhile  came 

The  library  within, 
And,  finding  out  the  cause  of  this 

Most  sad  and  dang'rous  din 
Exclaimed: 4i  How  many  bards  at  war 
Just  like  this  pen  and  standish  are! " 

THE  DOG  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

A  certain  dog  of  watchful  kind 

To  scare  the  thief  away 
Barked  from  the  setting  of  the  sun 

Until  the  dawn  of  day. 
His  master  at  the  morning  light 
Flogged  him  for  barking  thus  all  night. 

Next  night  the  dog  in  kennel  slept 
Sound  with  prodigious  snore, 

The  thief  broke  in  and  seizing  all 
Made  exit  by  the  door. 

When  morning  came  they  flogged  the  brute 

Because  the  lazy  dog  was  mute. 

THE  TALLOW-CANDLE  AND  THE  TORCH. 

A  tallow-candle  and  a  torch, 

Both  in  a  narrow  place, 

Were  lighted,  when  the  first  began 

To  speak,  with  fancied  grace: 

"  Fear  not  the  dark,  my  glimmering  brother, 

My  light  shall  the  darkness  smother." 


142      POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

"  Fool!  "  said  the  torch,  "  and  thinkest  thou 

That  all  the  world  are  blind, 

That  thy  pretensions  will  deceive 

A  sensible  mankind? 

Or  that  they  do  no  difference  know 

'Twixt  my  bright  light  and  thy  faint  glow !  " 

THE  FOOL  AND  THE  SAGE. 

A  fool  one  day  a  wise  man  asked 
What  good  was  there  in  learning, 

If  it  improved  one's  happiness 
And  ought  diminished  mourning; 

E'er  mended  coats  or  broiled  a  goose, — 

In  short,  what  was  its  aim  or  use? 

At  first  the  sage  refused  to  speak, 
But  for  a  long  time  pressed, 

In  angry  words  yet  courteous  tones 
This  answer  apt  expressed: 

"  It  becomes  us  this,  its  chiefest  rule, 

To  give  no  answer  to  a  fool." 

THE  TORTOISE  AND  THE  MOUSE. 

A  tortoise  crawling  o'er  the  plain, 

Bearing  her  shelly  house, 
Met  'fore  she  long  had  traveled 

A  fat  and  pompous  mouse, 
Who  said:  "  I  pity  one  past  telling, 
Who  hath  to  carry  such  a  dwelling." 

"  Reserve  your  pity,  pray,  my  friend," 

The  tortoise  calm  replied, 
"  And  hie  you  to  the  palaces 

Of  man,  to  bloat  your  pride; 
Though  mine  is  formed  of  clumsy  bone, 
And  is  not  handsome — 'tis  my  own." 


KRASICKI.  143 

THE  HAUGHTY  RAT. 

Upon  the  altar,  during  mass, 

One  Sabbath  morn  there  sat, 
Surrounded  by  admiring  friends, 

A  consequential  rat. 
"  For  me,"  said  he,  "  the  incense  floats, 
And  peal  yon  swelling  organ  notes." 

E'en  as  he  spoke,  the  incense  cloud, 

Borne  by  the  summer  breeze, 
Came  curling  o'er  the  altar  top 
And  made  his  ratship  sneeze. 
Hearing  the  sound,  a  wary  cat 
Leaped  up — adieu,  my  haughty  rat ! 

THE   CAT   AND  THE   HOUND. 

A  pussy  who  in  corner  sat, 

Devouring  dainty  mice, 
Was  by  a  mighty  stag-hound  asked 

Why  lived  she  not  more  nice?' 
Said  he,  "  I  eat  no  mice-like  gear, 
But  seize  and  slay  the  stately  deer." 

The  cat  replied  with  modest  look, 

"  I  grant  my  mice  are  small, 
But  please,  my  friend,  to  recollect, 

That  I  consume  them  all; 
Pi'eferring  for  myself  a  mouse, 
To  a  deer  for  my  master's  house." 

THE   TWO   PAINTERS. 

Two  painters  once,  'tis  said,  there  were, 

Each  bore  a  wond'rous  name; 
But  one  far  o'er  the  other  stood 

In  point  of  noisy  fame. 


144  POETS    AND    POETEY    OF    POLAND. 

The  best  no  cash  nor  blessing  got, 
The  worst  one  had  them  both,  I  wot. 

The  first  his  portraits  made  from  nature, 

True  to  the  copied  one; 
Correct  in  every  form  and  feature, 

With  faithful  care  'twas  done. 
The  last  drew  little  on  truth's  store, 
Embellishing  from  fancy  more. 

THE   CHILD   AND   THE  ROD. 

The  father  whipped  his  child  because 

He  was  so  slow  to  learn; 
Imagining  the  smai't  would  make 

Him  smarter  to  discern. 
But  e'er  that  way  again  he  trod 
His  son  and  heir  had  burned  the  rod. 

Next  time  when  little  John  deserved 

A  heavy  punishment, 
The  father,  to  the  usual  place, 

To  find  his  weapon  went. 
And,  as  'twas  missing,  he  was  fain 
To  use  instead  his  walking  cane. 

THE  SHEPHERD  AND  HIS  SHEEP. 

A  shepherd  shearing  sheep  one  day 
Declaimed  most  zealously 

Upon  the  care  was  ta'en  of  sheep, 
From  utter  charity. 

How  they  had  homes  to  rest  their  feet 

And  in  the  winter  food  to  eat. 

The  sheep  he  held  was  mute  — 

The  angry  peasant  cried, 
"Ungrateful!  no  acknowledgment?" 

When  calmly  it  replied  — 


KKASICKI.  145 

"  Well,  God  must  pay  men  for  their  care: 
From  what  is  made  the  coats  they  wear?" 


THE   CAPTIVE   BIRD. 

"  Why  weepest  thou?"  a  youngling  bird 

To  older  one  appealed, . 
"Art  thou  not  better  in  this  cage 

Than  in  yon  dangerous  field? 
For  me  the  prison-house  and  care, 
'Fore  danger  and  the  open  air," 

"Peace!"  said  the  elder  bird,  "  be  still! 

Within  this  thou  wert  born; 
But  I  have  known  the  hallowed  sweets 

Of  freedom  in  life's  morn. 
Bright  liberty  once  sunned  my  brow, 
I  weep  that  I'm  a  prisoner  now." 

THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

There  lived  somewhere,  in  olden  time, 

A  proud  philosopher, 
Who,  fixed  in  his  opinions,  thought 

That  he  could  never  err. 
Progressed  through  life  without  assistance, 
And  scoffed  the  thought  of  God's  existence. 

But  sickness  came,  and  with  its  pangs 

Came  loss  of  fortitude ; 
And  he  who  measured  heaven's  space, 

And  farther'st  planets  viewed, 
Came  not  alone  a  God  to  know, 
But  all  the  fiends  of  hell,  also. 
10 


146  POETS   AND   POETRY    OF   POLAND. 


WENGIERSKI. 

THOMAS  KAJETAN  WENGIERSKI,  the  Polish  PIRON,  was 
born  in  Podolia  in  1755,  and  educated  by  the  Jesuits 
at  Nowe  Miasto,  as  also  at  Warsaw.  He  became  a 
chamberlain  to  the  king  Stanislaus  Augustus,  but  his 
unbridled  passion  for  satires  and  epigrams  caused  him 
many  bitter  enemies.  All  his  writings  are  distinguished 
for  smoothness  and  great  wit.  His  "  Calash  "  and  "The 
Philosopher"  are  short  poems,  but  excellent.  He  is 
also  the  author  of  "Organy  "  (the  organs),  a  poem  of 
great  power  and  bitter  satire.  His  satirical  attacks  of 
persons  connected  with  the  king's  court  caused  his  dis- 
missal, and  he  was  obliged  to  leave  the  country. 

He  traveled  in  England,  Italy,  France,  Martinique, 
Hayti,  St.  Domingo  and  the  United  States  of  North 
America.  He  gave  a  lucid  account  of  his  travels  in 
Southern  France  and  Italy  in  the  French  language,  but 
the  rest  of  his  peregrinations  were  written  in  his  native 
tongue. 

There  is  no  denying  that  Wengierski  was  a  poet  of 
great  genius,  but  his  language  is  occasionally  some- 
what loose.  He  died  at  Marseilles  quite  young  (at  the 
age  of  thirty-two),  having  impaired  his  health  and 
shortened  his  life  by  all  sorts  of  excesses. 

Lucian  Siemienski,  in  his  "Literary  Portraits,"  pub- 
lished in  1850,  wrote  an  article  on  the  "Travels  and 
Reminiscences  of  Wengierski,"  mentioning  many  inter- 
esting incidents  in  the  poet's  life,  softening  greatly  the 
asperse  criticisms  on  Wengierski,  and  acquainting  us 
with  the  unknown  part  of  his  life  and  character. 


VVENGIERSKI.  147 


MY    WIFE. 

A     DREAM. 

Strangely  'wilder'd  I  must  seem, 
I  was  married  in  a  dream, — 
Oh,  the  ecstasy  of  bliss! 
Brother!  what  a  joy  it  is! 
Think  about  it  and  confess 
'Tis  a  storm  of  happiness, — 
And  the  memory  is  to  me 
Sunbeams, —  but  sixteen  was  she. 
Cheeks  of  roses  red  and  white; 
Mouth  like  Davia's;  eyes  of  light, 
Fiery,  round,  of  raven  hue, 
Swimming,  but  coquettish  too; 
Ivory  teeth;  lips  fresh  as  dew; 
Bosom  beauteous,  hand  of  down, 
Fairy  foot.     She  stood  alone 
In  her  graces, —  she  was  mine, 

And  I  drank  her  charms  divine. 
*  *  *  *  * 

But  in  early  years  our  schemes 
Are  but  showy,  shadowy  dreams; 
For  a  season  they  deceive, 
Then  our  souls  in  darkness  leave. 
Oft  the  bowl  the  water  bears, 
Yet  'tis  useless  soon  with  years; 
First  it  cracks,  and  then  it  leaks, 
And  at  last  —  at  last  it  breaks. 
All  things  with  beginning  tend 
To  their  melancholy  end  — 

So  her  beauty  fled. 
***** 

Then  did  anger,  care  and  malice 
Mingle  up  their  bitter  chalice. 


148      POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Eiches  like  a  whirlwind  flew, 
Honors,  gifts,  and  glories  too; 
And  my  lovely  wife,  so  mild, 
Fortune's  frail  and  flattered  child, 
Spent  our  wealth,  as  if  the  day 
Ne'er  would  dim  or  pass  away ; 
And  —  0,  monstrous  thought !  —  the  fair 
Scratched  my  eyes,  and  tore  my  hair; 
Nought  but  misery  was  our  guest, 
So  I  sought  the  parish  priest. 

"  Father !  grant  me  a  divorce  — 
Nay,  you  will  grant  it  me,  of  course: 
Eeasons  many  can  be  given, — 
Eeasons  both  of  earth  and  heaven." 

"  I  know  all  you  wish  to  say: 
Have  you  wherewithal  to  pay? 
Money  is  a  thing  of  course, — 
Money  may  obtain  divorce." 

"  Eeverend  father!  hear  me,  please  ye, 
'Tis  not  an  affair  so  easy." 
"  Silence,  child!  where  money's  needed 
Eloquence  is  superseded." 

Then  I  talked  of  morals ;  but 
The  good  father's  ears  were  shut. 
With  a  fierce  and  frowning  look 
Off  he  drove  me, — 

And  I  woke. 

WHAT   ONE   LIKES. 

"  Co  kto  lubi." 

Let  the  toper  his  empty  glass  fill, 
And  the  gambler  throw  his  dice  with  skill; 
Let  the  huntsman  gallop  his  steed  at  will, 
And  the  warrior  other  warriors  kill; 


WEISTGIERSKI  149 

Let  the  courtier  buzz  in  the  palace  gate, 
The  usurer  eat  the  youth's  estate; 
The  lawyer  pillage  and  prose  and  prate, 
And  rob  even  beggars,  with  looks  sedate; 
The  monk  may  leave  his  sandals  where 
They  tell  strange  tales, — I  nothing  care, 
If  of  this  world's  follies  .1  get  my  share ; 
Let  each  just  as  he  likes  —  that's  fair. 

The  end  of  life  is  happiness. — Pursue 

That  end  life's  transitory  journey  through, 

Nor  fear,  on  earth,  while  happiness  pursuing, 

That  thou  art  storing  up  for  heaven  thy  ruin. 

But  if  thou  fear  the  future,  oh,  beware 

At  every  step,  and  tread  with  cautious  care; 

For  in  this  world,  to  sin  and  sin  unheeded, 

A  very  decent  character  is  needed; 

So  get  a  character,  and  then  just  do 

Whate'er  you  please, —  the  world  will  smile  on  you. 

Helter  skelter,  a  dandy  scuds  over  the  streets, 

With  his  hot,  foaming  steeds,  helter  skelter, 
The  dread  and  annoyance  of  all  that  he  meets, 

Who  fly  at  his  coming  for  shelter. 
His  horses  he  flogs  and  cries  "  Out  of  the  way," 

As  they  tear  up  the  pebbles  and  stones,  sir; 
And  he  thinks  it  a  great  condescension  to  say 

"  Be  off  !  or  I'll  break  all  your  bones,  sir." 
I  saw  him  once  knock  a  poor  mendicant  down, 

And  laugh  as  the  luckless  one  stumbled; 
And  I  said,  "  E'er  he  reaches  the  verge  of  the  town 

That  cold-hearted  pride  will  be  humbled! 
Sure  a  tyrant  like  this,  one  so  reckless  and  base, 

Should  be  curl'd  to  be  cautious  or  quiet." 
But  still  he  dash'd  on  in  his  life-scorning  race, 

Till  he  rattled  toward  Nowy  Swiat* 

*Nowy  Swiat,"  the  New  World, —  a  fashionable  part  of  Warsaw. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

When  he  struck  on  a  stone  at  a  corner  —  and  smack 

Went  the  axle,  and  down  came  the  hero. 
He  was  thrown  like  a  stone  from  a  sling,  on  his  back, 

And  his  pride  sunk  at  once  below  zero. 
I  have  seen  him  on  crutches,  and  hope  he  has  found 

This  secret — I  need  not  reveal  it, — 
'Tis  easy  indeed  to  occasion  a  wound, 

But  not  very  easy  to  heal  it. 


TKEMBECKI.  151 


TREMBECKI. 

STANISLAUS  TREMBECKI  was  a  man  of  extraordinary 
powers  of  mind.  He  possessed  the  greatest  facility  of 
being  easily  impressed  with  all  kinds  of  literary  crea- 
tions. He  was  well  versed  in  Latin  literature,  wrote 
in  French  as  well  as  in  Polish,  and  was  thoroughly 
learned  in  all  Slavonic  languages.  In  life,  and  in  the 
world  around  him,  objects  presented  themselves  to  him 
only  as  themes  for  writing  poetry  upon.  He  praised 
many  people  and  many  things,  but  he  loved  no  one 
and  nothing.  He  never  had  a  soul-attachment  to  any 
one.  Persons  and  things  that  interested  him  he  loved 
but  for  a  little  while.  Not  having  the  popularity  of 
Krasicki,  he  was  superior  to  him  in  taste  and  poetic 
talent.  Among  the  learned  he  had  a  great  repute. 
He  composed  satires,  letters,  fables,  on  common  and 
political  subjects.  We  must  also  add  that  he  was  dis- 
tinguished in  epic  poetry.  In  his  lyrics  he  was  cold 
and  constrained,  but  occasionally  he  warmed  up  with 
patriotic  feeling,  but  even  then  he  was  more  eloquent 
than  poetic.  His  satires  were  the  fruits  of  momentary 
impressions  and  to.ols  of  contention.  Open  and  hab- 
itual derider,  he  comes  out  with  bitterness  and  severity, 
never  trying  to  smooth  things  over  with  harmless  wit 
or  even  irony,  frequently  using  common  and  even 
coarse  expressions.  In  his  panegyrics  he  frequently 
piles  flattery  with  great  profusion.  Epic  poetry  was  his 
chief  pursuit,  in  which  he  distinguished  himself  as  the 
poet  most  conversant  with  the  patterns  of  the  masters 
of  antiquity.  Initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  poetic 
spirit,  in  the  riches  and  adaptation  of  his  native 


152       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

tongue  he  was  gifted  with  aesthetic  feeling  and  a  deli- 
cate taste.  Although  an  imitator  and  a  disciple  of  a 
new  school,  he  did  not  know  how  to  become  a  national 
writer,  neither  did  he  wish  to  approach  the  grateful 
simplicity  and  freshness  of  the  poets  of  Sigismund's 
times,  yet  he  equaled  them  in  power,  dignity,  and  fer- 
tility, but  in  the  outward  smoothness  and  polish  consid- 
erably outstripped  them. 

His  most  celebrated  poem  is  "Zofiowka"  (Sophia's 
Park  or  Garden),  a  description  of  a  garden  of  that 
name,  the  property  of  Count  Potocki,  situated  close  to 
the  city  of  Human,  in  Ukraine.  In  this  park  of  mag- 
nificent proportions'  and  great  beauty  is  a  grotto,  on 
entering  which  your  senses  are  struck  with  a  delightful 
sight  of  rare  works  of  art  and  many  wonderful  curiosi- 
ties. As  you  gaze  around  it  the  spell  of  enchantment 
only  increases,  and  you  almost  imagine  that  you  have 
entered  the  gates  of  Paradise.  The  following  in  scription 
in  Polish  may  perhaps  be  seen  up  to  this  day  over  the 
grotto,  the  meaning  of  which  is  this: 

Before  you  enter  here  leave  your  troubles  all  behind, — 
If  you're  already  happy,  more  happiness  you'll  find. 

The  conciseness  of  presenting  high  thoughts,  the  power, 
skill,  and  the  appropriateness  in  description,  the  inim- 
itable skill  in  the  outer  form  of  the  verse,  distinguish 
him  from  all  his  contemporaries.  Trembecki  has  been 
called  more  of  an  artist  than  a  poet. 

He  was  born  in  1723.  While  yet  very  young  he 
traveled  over  nearly  all  Europe,  and  resided  for  some 
time  in  Paris,  where  he  contracted  a  friendly  intimacy 
with  many  distinguished  French  poets.  It  was  there 
that  he  was  impressed  with  the  philosophy  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  and  with  the  manners  and  customs  of 


TREMBECKI.  153 

the  French  court  of  Louis  XV.  He  fought  thirty  duels, 
the  cause  of  almost  every  one  being  women.  Returning 
to  his  country  he  became  chamberlain  to  King  Stanis- 
laus Augustus;  from  this  time  hence  he  lived  at  War- 
saw, and  was  engaged  in  the  composition  of  different 
kinds  of  verses.  After  the  abdication  of  King  Ponia- 
towski  he  remained  with  him  continually  at  Grodno 
and  St.  Petersburg.  After  the  king's  death  he  resided 
at  Tulczyn,  in  the  Province  of  Podolia,  at  Count 
Potocki's  manor.  For  thirty  years  he  never  ate  meat 
nor  drank  any  wine.  Toward  the  end  of  his  life  he 
associated  with  but  very  few,  and  scarcely  left  his 
house.  He  spent  one  day  in  the  week  giving  alms. 
He  died  in  1812. 

All  his  works  were  published  in  1828,  in  two  vol- 
umes, at  Breslau,  and  in  Leipsic  in  1806  and  1836. 
Quite  a  learned  dissertation  on  Trembecki's  poetry  was 
published  by  Hippolitus  Klimaszewski  in  1830.  "Zo- 
fiowka"  was  translated  into  French  by  De  Lagarde. 

BALLOON. 

Where  the  eagle  in  his  rapid  flight 

With  strong  pursuit  the  birds  do  scare  — 

And  lurid  thunderbolts  with  angry  might 
Rush  though  the  regions  of  the  air. 

A  strange  pair  whom  fear  has  never  checked, 

Resolved  to  o'ercome  Nature's  laws; 
And  striking  the  road  where  Icarus  wrecked, 

Soared  through  the  clouds  without  a  pause. 

With  gas  the  vehicle  the  pair  inflate, 
Upward  the  air  its  course  inclines  — 

Its  chains  are  threads,  its  rudder  is  fate, 
They  are  competing  with  the  winds. 


154  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

The  lofty,  gorgeous  houses,  one  by  one, 
Lessen  and  disappear  from  sight, 

And  looking  from  the  trap  of  the  balloon  — 
A  ruined  heap  they  all  unite. 

The  broad  Vistula,  so  august  and  grand, 

Looked  like  a  stream  whose  drops  would  fail, 

Its  width  like  a  finger  from  a  child's  hand, 
Though  it  flowed  grandly  in  the  vale. 

Yet  some  attribute  wonders  strangely  great 

To  this  unsafe  and  crazy  craft, 
Perhaps  'tis  so,  yet  I  may  truly  state, 

Wise  men  have  at  their  judgment  laughed. 

Yet  we  admit  that  Nature's  giant  might 
Has  burst  strong  walls  of  stone  and  steel, 

Man's  wisdom,  too,  all  obstacles  shall  smite  — 
But  give  him  time  with  work  and  zeal. 

With  gallant  ships  his  fertile  brain  has  filled 
The  stormy  and  the  pathless  main, 

Of  gems  to  rob  the  ocean  he  is  skilled  — 
Eternal  rocks  he  rends  in  twain. 

The  mighty  elements  their  wrath  forego 
Under  his  skilled  and  wise  command; 

He  bids  the  waters  leave  the  valleys  low, 
And  mountains  sink  to  level  land! 


NIEMCEWICZ. 


NIEMCEWICZ.  157 


NIEMCEWICZ. 

With  pleasure  Heaven  itself  surveys 
A  brave  man  struggling  in  the  storms  of  fate, 
And  greatly  falling  with  the  falling  state.  POPE. 

JULIAN  UESIN  NIEMCEWICZ,  secretary  to  the  senate  of 
the  kingdom  of  Poland,  .and  soon  after  a  senator, 
president  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Science  of  Warsaw, 
and  member  of  many  literary  societies  in  Europe  and 
America,  was  born  of  an  ancient  and  respectable  family 
in  Lithuania,  in  the  year  1758.  As  citizen,  statesman, 
author,  historian,  and  poet,  he  shone  with  an  eclat 
unparalleled  since  the  days  of  Crichton.  While  still 
very  young  he  was  elected  representative  of  the  palati- 
nate of  Polish  Livonia  to  the  diets  of  1788  and  1792. 
Much  civil  courage  was  requisite  in  those  assemblies  to 
combat  the  menaces  and  intrigues  of  the  factions,  and 
much  activity  to  repress  the  turbulence  of  the  people; 
for  in  addition  to  the  dangers  to  be  apprehended  from 
exterior  enemies,  the  ambition,  interest,  and  prejudices 
of  the  great,  and  the  ignorance  of  the  people,  were 
opposed  to  the  efforts  of  the  patriots. 

The  young  Niemcewicz,  endowed  with  a  generous 
mind  and  superior  talents,  knew  how  to  merit  this 
double  praise.  Amidst  the  representatives  of  his 
country  his  eloquence  was  poured  forth  in  defense  of 
the  sacred  cause  of  rational  liberty,  and  sustained  the 
rights  of  the  peasant  against  the  usurped  privileges  of 
the  aristocrat  when  this  important  question  was  before 
the  house.  To  disseminate  his  principles  he  united 
with  two  of  his  colleagues, —  the  castellan  Thadeus 


158       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Mostowski,  and  the  representative  of  Livonia,  Joseph 
Weyssenhoflf,  in  publishing  a  political  journal;  and 
notwithstanding  the  short  duration  of  "  The  Foreign 
and  National  Gazette  "  (1st  January,  1791),  it  rendered 
important  service  to  the  public  cause.  The  muse  of 
Niemcewicz,  by  chanting  in  spirited  strains  the  exploits 
of  the  heroes  of  his  country,  kindled  the  torch  of 
patriotism  in  the  breasts  of  their  compatriots.  The 
laurel  that  entwines  the  brow  of  the  hero  would  wither 
in  his  tomb  if,  like  that  of  Achilles,  it  were  not  pre- 
served by  the  bard  in  unfading  freshness.  Niemcewicz 
also  made  the  theater  subservient  to  his  ruling  passion. 
One  of  his  comedies,  the  "Return  of  the  Representa- 
tive," displays  equally  his  talents  and  public  spirit. 
During  the  public  frtes  on  the  anniversary  of  the  3d 
of  May,  1791,  a  new  drama  (Casimir  the  Great)  had 
the  honor  of  embellishing  the  national  rejoicings, 
adding  to  his  fame,  and  acquiring  lasting  and  deserved 
popularity.  The  memorable  day  on  which  it  was 
enacted  was  the  last  of  Poland's  happiness.  A  handful 
of  traitors,  bribed  by  the  empress,  Catharine  fll,  sup- 
ported by  her  troops,  and  encouraged  by  the  shameful 
irresolution  ofKing  Stanislaus  Augustus,  with  the  deadly 
blight  of  their  treason  blasted  the  councils  of  the 
brave,  and  prepared  for  the  ruin  of  their  unfortunate 
country.  But  Poland  did  not  yield  without  covering 
herself  with  immortal  glory  during  the  last  moments 
of  her  political  existence.  The  illustrious  Kosciuszko 
raised  the  standard  of  independence,  and  placed  him- 
self at  the  head  of  those  brave  men  who  resolved  to 
bury  themselves  under  the  ruins  of  their  country.  The 
young  Niemcewicz  became  aid-de-camp  to  the  general- 
issimo. It  was  he  who  composed  the  proclamations, 
orders  of  the  day,  and  bulletins  of  the  battles,  —  all 


NIEMCEWICZ.  1 59 

dictated  by  ardent  love  for  Poland  and  for  glory.  But 
when,  after  unhoped-for  success,  the  fatal  day  of  the 
10th  of  October,  1794,  covered  Poland  with  mourning, 
and  Kosciuszko,  pierced  with  wounds,  fell  into  the 
hands,  of  the  enemy  on  the  field  of  Macieiowice,  the 
brave  Niemcewicz,  also  grievously  wounded,  shared 
his  fate.  They  were  sent,  witli  a  number  of  other 
illustrious  victims,  to  the  dungeons  of  St.  Petersburg. 
In  their  solitary  confinement  they  mourned  over  the 
fate  of  Poland  until  the  accession  of  Paul  I  to  the 
throne  of  Russia  restored  14,000  Polanders,  dispersed 
through  Siberia  and  the  different  strongholds  of  the 
vast  Russian  empire,  to  liberty.  But  the  virtuous 
Niemcewicz  seemed  destined  to  form  an  exception  to 
the  amnesty  of  1797.  Niemcewicz  still  inspired  the 
new  czar  with  suspicion.  "I  fear,"  said  Paul,  "that 
his  ardent  mind,  vast  intellectual  powers,  and  persua- 
sive eloquence  will  excite  new  troubles  in  my  empire." 
The  entreaties  of  Kosciuszko  overcame  the  fears  of  the 
czar,  and  Niemcewicz  followed  his  immortal  friend  into 
that  refuge  of  oppressed  virtue,  the  hospitable  land 
of  America.  In  exile,  as  well  as  in  captivity,  he  found 
in  letters  his  chief  consolation.  It  was  in  his  Russian 
prison  that  he  composed  his  beautiful  translation  of  the 
"Rape  of  the  Lock,"  and  of  "Racine's  Athalia." 
Desirous  of  seeing  his  family  he  sailed  for  Warsaw  in 
1809,  and  there  published  his  works  in  twelve  volumes. 
Received  into  the  Scientific  Society,  he  joined  in  their 
labors,  and  wrote  some  political  tracts,  which  are 
greatly  esteemed.  It  was  in  Paris,  in  1803,  that  he 
was  invited  into  Russia,  where  the  government  offered 
him  employment;  but  disdaining  to  serve  the  spoilers 
of  his  country,  he  refused  the  offers  of  Alexander,  and 
returned  to  America,  where  he  married  a  lady  native  of 


160       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

New   Jersey,    whose   talents   and   agreeable   qualities 
formed  the  frequent  theme  of  his  muse  during  his  short 
visit  to  Europe.     During  his  former  visit  to  America 
he  had,  with  his  general,  Kosciuszko,  been  admitted  into 
the  friendship  of  the  immortal  Washington.   In  the.  verd- 
ant groves  of  his  charming  residence  in  Mount  Vernon, 
and  on  the  banks  of  the  superb  Potomac,  Niemcewicz 
mused  on  the  condition  of  his  beloved  Poland,  or  con- 
templated the  august  figure  of  the  most  virtuous  of 
Americans,  until  his  sentiments  of  respect  and  venera- 
tion for  this  hero  found  utterance  in  his   biography  of 
George  Washington.     The  events  of  1806,  the  creation 
of  the  grand  duchy  of  Warsaw,  and  their    hopes    of 
the  complete  restoration  of  Poland,  caused   many  of 
her   patriots    to  return   thither,   and  among  the   rest 
JNiemcewicz,   who    was   nominated    secretary   to    the 
senate  —  an   office   he   filled   until    1830.     The  muses 
were  his  relaxation,  science  and  his  duties  as  a  states- 
man his  occupation,   and  the  veneration  of  his  com- 
patriots   his    solace.       Frederick   Augustus,    King   of' 
Saxony  and  Grand  Duke  of  Warsaw,  conferred  upon 
him  the  order  of  St.  Stanislaus.     He  was   afterward 
nominated  a  member  of  the  Directory  of  Public  In- 
struction; he  devoted  himself  to  this  honorable  office, 
which  he  retained  until  1821,  when  an  absolute  system 
adopted  anew  by  Stanislaus  Grabowski,  senator  and 
minister   of  public   instruction,    made   him   resign   it. 
His  retirement  was  requisite  to  enable  the  government 
to  stifle   every   germ   of    liberty.      Niemcewicz    was 
always   odious  to  Russia,   both  from  his  services  to 
Poland  and  from  his  avowed  hatred  to  her  oppressors. 
His  "Lithuanian  Letters,"  published  periodically  dur- 
ing the  war  of  1812,  to  promote  a  revolt  in  Lithuania, 
contributed  much  toward  increasing  this  feeling.     All 


NIEMCEWICZ.  161 

his  works  aimed  at  the  one  point,  that  of  keeping 
Polish  patriotism  alive.  His  national  melodies,  his 
historical  pages  glowing  with  love  of  his  country,  and 
ingenious  allegories  equaling  La  Fontaine's,  which  his 
fertile  imagination  offered  periodically  to  his  country- 
men, all  breathed  the  same  spirit. 

The  retirement  of  Niemcewicz  from  the  directory 
did  not  deprive  him  of  all  means  of  serving  his  com- 
patriots. Called  by  the  choice  of  the  inhabitants  of 
Warsaw  to  the  presidency  of  the  beneficent  society  of 
that  city,  he  found  a  sweet  pleasure  in  exercising  his 
philanthropic  feelings.  Another  proof  of  public 
regard  awaited  him.  The  Royal  Scientific  Society 
honored  themselves  by  raising  him  to  the  office  of 
president,  vacant  by  the  death  of  the  learned  and 
philanthropic  Stanislaus  Staszyc. 

Niemcewicz-  was  equally  illustrious  as  historian, 
journalist,  romancer,  and  poet.  His  romances  "Dwaj 
Sieciechowie  "  and  "  Leyba  i  Siora  "  (Levi  and  Sarah) 
are  of  great  importance,  and  were  not  without  influence 
on  the  public  mind.  Following  is  a  list  of  his  works  : 

1st.  The  Secret  History  of  John  of  Bourbon;  trans- 
lated from  the  French  in  1779,  2  vols.  8vo. 

2d.  The  History  of  Margaret  of  Yalois,  Queen  of 
Navarre;  translated  in  1781. 

3d.   Odes  on  quitting  England  (1787). 

4th.  Casimir  the  Great,  a  drama  in  three  acts,  acted 
at  Warsaw  May  3,  1792. 

5th.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock;  translated  into  Polish 
verse  from  the  English  of  Pope  in  1796. 

6th.  Wladislas,  King  of  Poland,  a  tragedy,  acted 
at  Warsaw  in  1796. 

7th.  King  John  Sobieski's  Page,  a  farce,  written  in 
1808. 


162  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

8th.  Lithuanian  Letters,  written  in  1812. 
9th.  The  Public  Prisons,  written  in  1818. 

10th.  Reign  of  Sigismund  III,  King  of  Poland 
(1819),  3  vols.  8vo. 

llth.  Two  historical  romances  (1819). 

12th.  Odes  of  the  Polish  Army  in  1792. 

13th.  Historical  Melodies  in  1819. 

14th.  Fables  and  Tales  (1820). 

15th.  Historical  Recollections  of  Poland  as  it  has 
been  (1822),  4  vols.  8vo. 

16th.  John  de  Tehczyn,  an  historical  romance, 
translated  into  German  in  1826. 

17th.  Lejba  i  Siora,  a  Jewish  romance;  translated 
into  German,  English,  and  Dutch. 

18th.  What  Pleases  Ladies,  a  tale  of  Voltaire; 
translated  from  the  French. 

19th.  Odes  of  Pope  and  of  Dry  den  on  music; 
translated  into  verse. 

20th.  The  Miseries  of  Human  Life;  translated  into 
Polish. 

1st.  Athalia,  a  tragedy  of  Racine's  ;  translated  into 
verse. 

22d.  Hedwige,  Queen  of  Poland,  an  opera  in  verse; 
the  music  by  Kurpinski. 

23d.  The  Return  of  the  Representative,  a  comedy 
in  three  acts,  in  verse;  this  work,  twenty  years  after 
its  publication,  excited  the  resentment  of  the  Grand 
Duke  Constantine. 

24th.  Traits  of  the  Life  of  General  Washington. 

25th.  Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia;  translated 
from  the  English. 

26th.  The  Suspicious,  a  comedy  in  five  acts  and  in 
verse,  acted  during  the  revolution. 

27th.  The  Yain  Man,  in  five  acts. 


NIEMCE  WICZ.  163 

28th.  Kochanowski,  a  drama. 

And  a  number  of  other  works  of  great  interest.       .; 

In  1830,  the  day  preceding  our  revolution,  the 
supreme  counsel  of  the  kingdom  having  felt  the  neces- 
sity of  being  supported  by  names  dear  to  the  natives, 
called  upon  Niemcewicz  to  join  its  ranks.  It  was  to 
his  venerable  appearance,  and  the  words  of  wisdom 
and  eloquence  that  he  addressed  to  the  people  assem- 
bled under  the  windows  of  the  hall  of  government,  that 
the  accomplishment  of  a  revolution,  unstained  by 
crimes  or  excesses,  may  be  in  a  great  measure  attrib- 
uted. As  a  member  of  the  national  government  until 
the  creation  of  the  dictator,  he  assisted  in  all  the  delib- 
erations of  the  senators,  of  whom  he  was  the  secre- 
tary. He  had  the  signal  honor  of  being  elected  senator 
without  the  formalities  prescribed  by  law,  the  senate 
wishing  to  confer  on  him  a  mark  of  national  gratitude 
and  veneration.  The  day  of  glory  again  dawned  in 
Poland,  and  the  veteran  of  seventy-two  embraced  with 
all  the  ardor  of  youth  the  cause  of  liberty;  but  to  him 
the  revolution  shone  like  an  expiring  lamp,  for  eternity 
was  opening  before  him.  With  a  self-devotion  and 
energy  of  mind  that  neutralized  the  assaults  of  age, 
Niemcewicz,  deputed  by  the  national  government, 
undertook  a  journey  to  London  to  interest  the  British 
cabinet  in  the  cause  of  liberty  and  of  Poland;  but  the 
days  of  reverses  arrived,  and,  exiled  with  the  more 
virtuous  among  his  countrymen,  he  returned  no  more 
to  Poland.  After  living  for  a  long  time  in  retirement 
in  London,  he  went  to  Paris  to  rejoin  the  greater  part 
of  his  friends  and  colleagues,  and  from'  time  to  time 
published  little  tracts  or  poems  analogous  to  his  cir- 
cumstances. In  1841  he  ended  his  career  with  the 
tranquillity  resulting  from  a  life  of  duty.  The  Polish, 


164  POETS   -AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

French,  American  and  English  residents  in  Paris  united 
in  paying  him  the  last  tribute  of  respect  due  to  man, 
and  accompanied  his  honored  remains  to  the  cemetery 
of  Montmorency. 

Among  the  spectators  at  this  melancholy  scene  we 
find  Mr.  Gibbs,  an  American  gentleman,  who  thus  said 
to  the  assembled  friends  of  the  deceased:  "Gentlemen, 
the  noble  Polander  to  whom  we  pay  the  last  tribute  has 
the  sympathy  of  all  my  fellow-countrymen;  as  to  the 
American  citizen,  companion  of  Kosciuszko  and  to  the 
friend  of  liberty,  I  outrun,  I  am  sure,  and  express  their 
wishes,  when  in  their  name  and  mine  I  pay  to  his 
memory  due  tribute  of  profound  esteem.  Firm  in  his 
principles,  magnanimous  and  unconcerned  for  himself 
in  the  hopes  of  prosperity  for  the  cause  of  mankind, 
his  memory  deserves  the  eulogies  of  good  men  of  all 
countries.  His  name  will  be  placed  among  those  of  my 
fellow-countryman  who  are  honored  with  the  name  of 
benefactors  of  mankind." 

The  professors  and  members  of  the  Princeton  Col- 
lege (N.  J.),  at  a  meeting  called  expressly  for  that  pur- 
pose, passed  the  following  resolutions: 

Resolved,  That  this  society  has  learned  with  pro- 
found grief  of  the  death  of  their  respected  member, 
Julian  Ursin  Niemcewicz; 

Resolved,  That  this  society,  with  numerous  friends 
of  the  departed,  mourn  his  death,  and  as  a  proof  of  his 
services  and  regard  to  his  memory  will  wear  usual 
mourning  for  thirty  days; 

Resolved,  That  copies  of  these  resolutions  be  sent  to 
the  "Princeton  Whig,"  "National  Intelligencer"  and 
"New  York  Journal  of  Commerce." 


NIEMCEWIOZ.  165 

In  a  poetical  epistle  addressed  to  his  old  friend,  Gen. 
Kniaziewicz,  thus  he  describes 

AMERICA   AND   GENERAL   WASHINGTON. 

With  my  wounded  commander*  compelled  to  depart 

From  thee,  oppressed  Poland,  the  pride  of  my  heart; 

An  asylum  I  sought  o'er  the  dark  rolling  sea, 

In  the  land  of  the  noble,  the  brave  and  the  free ; 

But  e'en  there  the  sad  thought  of  my  country  would  rise, 

And  the  tears  of  deep  anguish  would  roll  from  my  eyes. 

In  boundless  savannas,  where  man  never  strayed, 
Amid  woods  that  ne'er  echoed  the  axe's  keen  blade; 
In  the  foaming  abyss,  where  the  clouds  of  bright  steam 
Round  the  falls  of  the  roaring  Niagara  gleam ; 
And  on  the  deep  sea,  when  the  white  sails  are  spread, 
Lo!  the  shade  of  my  country,  all  gory  and  dead. 

Full  of  bliss  to  my  heart  is  the  thought  of  that  day 
When  to  Washington's  mansion  I  wended  my  way; 
To  visit  the  warrior,  the  hero  and  sage, 
Whose  name  is  the  day-star  to  each  coming  age; 
By  his  valor  the  new  world  rose  happy  and  free, 
And  her  glory  his  endless  memento  shall  be. 

His  features  are  still  on  my  memory  defined, 
With  the  fadeless  and  delicate  colors  of  mind. 
Full,  noble,  majestic,  with  a  crown  of  swan-hair. 
And  a  brow  deeply  writ  with  the  finger  of  care: 
Old  Roman  simplicity  marked  his  fine  face, 
Expressive  of  dignity,  grandeur  and  grace. 

Ho\v  oft  on  his  accents  with  rapture  I  hung, 

While  wisdom  and  kindness  distill'd  from  his  tongue; 

Kosciuszko. 


166       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

And  whene'er  the  sad  tale  of  our  fall  Fd  relate  — 
How  brilliant  our  struggle,  yet  awful  our  fate  — 
A  sweet  tear-drop  of  sympathy  stole  down  his  cheek  — 
Better  pledge  of  affection  than  language  could  speak. 

Precious  tear!  a  rich  proof  of  his  sorrow  for  thee, 

Loved  home  of  my  fathers !  once  peaceful  and  free. 

And  oh,  could  I  that  gem  which  so  peerlessly  grows, 

In  some  costly  and  beautiful  crystal  enclose, 

So  priceless  a  treasure  a  witness  I'd  keep, 

That  o'er  Poland's  sad  ruin  a  great  man  could  weep. 

And  further  down,  such  a  picture  he  makes  of  his 
abode  in  the 

UNITED   STATES: 

When  an  exile  from  home,  with  deep  sorrow  oppressed, 
In  the  new  world  a  pilgrim,  unknown  and  unblessed, 
With  no  light  to  illumine  the  shadows  that  spread 
Like  the  gloom  of  the  sepulcher  over  my  head, 
My  lonely  condition  made  woman's  bright  eye 
Mould  the  beautiful  tear-drop  of  sweet  sympathy. 

But  the  feelings  of  pity  were  soon  changed  to  love, 
That  bright  seraph  of  mercy  bequeathed  from  above ! 
With  the  gift  of  her  fond  heart  she  sweetened  my  woe, 
Making  hope's  dying  embers  with  sweet  brightness  glow; 
Since  then  my  neat  cottage,  the  meadow,  parterre  — 
Rich  pleasures  of  freedom !  —  have  been  my  sole  care. 

How  oft  has  Aurora,  from  his  soft  couch  of  blue, 
Found  me  cutting  fresh  grass,  all  so  pearly  with  dew; 
Or  engrafting  a  shoot  on  the  thriving  young  tree, 
While  nature  was  smiling  in  beauty  and  glee. 
0  delightful  employment!  —  with  pleasure  how  rife 
Are  the  exquisite  scenes  of  a  pastoral  life. 


NIEMCEWICZ. 

Far  away  from  the  crowd  of  the  giddy  and  vain, 
From  the  thraldom  of  tyrants,  the  rude  and  profane; 
From  the  folly  of  idlers  that  cumber  the  earth, 
Wasting  life's  precious  season  in  profitless  mirth. 
Ambition  and  av'rice  disturb  not  the  breast, 
While  hope  points  the  soul  to  the  realms  of  the  blest. 

So  pure  were  the  joys  and  so  peaceful  the  life 
That  I  shared  with  my  lovely  and  beautiful  wife, 
I  might  have  been  happy,  could  man  but  forget 
When  his  country  with  deadliest  foes  is  beset. 
But  too  oft  the  sad  thoughts  would  convey  me  away 
In  the  stillness  of  midnight,  the  bustle  of  day, 
Thro'  the  foam-crested  waves  of  the  dark  rolling  sea, 
To  thee,  distressed  Poland  —  once  peaceful  and  free ! 

DUMA.* 

GLINSKI.f 

"W  okropnych  cieniach  pieczarow  podzieranych." 

In  a  dark,  dreary  dungeon,  where  the  beam, 
The  gladdening  beam  of  sunlight  never  shone: 

Where  from  the  dismal  roof  its  little  stream 
Of  twilight  pour'd  a  pendent  lamp; — alone 

And  conscience-tortured  —  sat,  to  misery  bound, 

Glinski  —  in  victory  and  in  crime  renown'd. 

His  forehead  years  and  gi'ief  had  furrow'd  o'er, 
His  grey  hair  hung  disorder'd  on  his  brow ; 

His  bloody  sockets  saw  the  light  no  more; 

Plough'd  were  his  wasted  cheeks  with  scars  and  woe. 

He  sat  and  lean'd  upon  his  hand:  —  his  groans 

Were  echoed  by  the  dungeon's  gloomy  stones. 

*  A  Duma,  an  elegiac  poem ;  a  plaintive  song. 

t  Glinski  was  a  Polish  chief  who  flourished  at  the  beginning  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  The  events  referred  to  in  this  Elegy  took 
place  in  1515. 


168       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

With  him  his  only  child,  his  daughter  fair, 

A  very  gem  of  virtue,  grace  and  youth. 
She  left  the  smiling  world  and  the  free  air, 

Her  miserable  father's  woes  to  soothe; 
Pleased  in  that  fearful  solitude  to  stay, 

While  life's  young  bloom  fled  silently  away. 

"  Father!  I  pray  thee  by  these  tender  tears  "  — 
So  spake  the  maid  —  "be  comforted,  and  chase 

Despair;  though  chains  hang  heavy  on  thy  years, 
Yet  hope  deserts  not  e'en  this  desert  place. 

Time  may  smile  upon  thee;  thou  may'st  rest 

Thy  gray  old  age  upon  thy  country's  breast." 

"  My  country!  breathe  not  that  dread  name'  to'  me, 
For  crimes  rush  down  upon  my  tortured  thought, 

And  wakened  conscience  gnaws  the  memory, 
And  gentle  sleep  these  eyes  will  visit  not. 

Did  I  not  head  her  foes! — And  can  the  name 

Of  '  traitor '  but  be  link'd  to  death  and  shame? 

"All  that  can  raise  a  man  above  mankind, — 
All  that  is  good  and  great  in  war  or  peace, — 

Power  —  riches  —  beauty  —  courage  —  strength  of  mind, — 
Yes!  nature  gave  me  these,  and  more  than  these. 

I  wanted  nought  but  laurels  —  which  I  found  — 

And  glory's  trophies  wreathed  my  temples  round. 

"  The  locust-swarming  hosts  of  Tartans  broke 

Upon  Lithuania  and  Volhynia's  land, 
Plundering,  destroying;  their  terrific  yoke 

Spared  neither  sex  nor  age;  the  fiery  brand 
Of  desolation  swept  the  country  o'er  — 
Children  and  mothers  drown'd  in  fathers'  gore. 

"  I  sought  the  invaders'  ravage  to  withstand. 

Proud  of  their  strength,  in  widespread  camps  they  lay; 


N1EMCEWICZ.  169 

But  they  were  scattered  by  my  victor  hand. 
The  misty  eve  look'd  on  the  battle  fray, 
While  corpses  on  the  Niemen's  waters  rode, 
And  Infidel  blood  the  thirsty  fields  o'erflow'd. 

"  When  Alexander  on  his  dying  bed 

Lay,  mourn'd  by  all  his  children-subjects,  came 

The  news  that  the  defeated  Tartars  fled, 
Upon  his  clouded  brow  joy's  holy  flame 

Kindled  sweet  peace.     '  Now  let  me,  let  me  die, 

For  I  bequeath  to  Poland  victory ! ' 

"  My  deeds,  my  monarch's  praises,  warm'd  my  breast, 
And  love  of  dai-ing  violence  grew.     The  fame 

Of  Zabrzezynki  oft  disturb'd  my  rest. 

I — a  most  foul  and  midnight  murderer  —  came 

And  butcher'd  all  in  sleep.     My  Poles  rebell'd  — 

I  join'd  with  Poland's  foes,  by  rage  impelled. 

"Flagitious  sin,  and  memory's  fiercest  smart; 

The  eagle  blended  with  the  hurrying  steed  * 
From  cruelty  and  crime  won  not  my  heart, 

Nor  sheath'd  the  sword  that  did  the  cruel  deed. 
The  foemen  Russ  I  bent  to  my  control, 

And  fought  'gainst  Poles  —  e'en  I —  e'en  I —  a  Pole ! 

"  I  look'd  upon  the  battle-field ;  I  saw 

Many  a  well-known  corpse  among  the  dead. 

Then  did  fierce  agony  my  bosom  gnaw; 

Then  burning  tears  of  conscious  guilt  were  shed: 

And  I  implored  forgiveness  —  from  my  king, — 

Forgiveness  for  a  vile  and  outcast  thing. 

"I  told  my  penitent  tale.     My  foes  had  wrought 
Upon  the  czar,  and  roused  him  to  distrust. 

*  The  arms  of  Poland  are  a  while  eagle.  Those  of  Lithuania  are  a 
horse  galloping,  with  a  rider  holding  a  sword  ready  to  strike.  The 
latter  is  called  Pogon,  from  pursuing.  Gonic  means  to  pursue. 


170       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

He  met  indignantly  my  honest  thought, 

Dash'd  my  awakening  virtue  to  the  dust; 
Bid  them  tear  out  my  eyes,  and  bind  me  here 
In  galling  fetters  to  this  dungeon  drear. 

"  Ten  years  have  pass'd ;  and  yet  I  live.     The  sun 
And  the  gay  stars  shine  on,  but  not  for  me. 

Darkness  and  torments  with  my  being  run; 
My  strength  decays;  my  blood  flows  freezingly 

Through  my  chill'd  veins;  and  death  —  not  gentle  death 

Lays  its  rude  hand  upon  my  weakening  breath. 

"Yet  a  few  days  —  this  corpse,  my  grief's  remains, 

Will  ask  a  handful  of  unfriendly  earth. 
Leave  then,  my  child,  these  foul  and  foreign  plains, 

Blest  who  can  claim  the  country  of  his  birth. 
The  Poles  forgive, —  and  thou  shalt  be  forgiven. 
My  child,  be  blest,  and  I  be  left  to  heaven. 

"  Yes !  thou  shalt  see  thy  country,  and  its  smile 
Shall  chase  the  memory  of  these  gloomy  days; 

Thy  father's  princely  hall  shall  greet  thee,  while 
Thy  thought  o'er  long-departed  glory  strays; 

Thy  friends,  thy  countrymen,  shall  welcome  thee, 

Give  thee  their  love, —  but  pour  their  curse  on  me. 

"Yet  e'en  my  death  may  hallow'd  thoughts  inspire; 

From  this  scathed  trunk  may  wisdom's  blossoms  grow. 
My  history  shall  check  revengeful  ire, — 

None  other  Pole  shall  join  his  country's  foe. 
Why  should  a  traitor  live  when  he  hath  bound 
His  veil'd  and  sorrowing  country  to  the  ground?" 

Thus  spake  the  miserable  man.     A  groan, 
A  dark  and  hollow  groan  the  dungeon  fill'd ; 

On  her  pale  breast  his  snow-white  head  was  thrown; 
Death's  shade  o'ershadow'd, —  and  all  was  still'd. 


NIEMCEWICZ.  171 

So  died  the  mighty  Glinski: —  better  lot 
Might  have  been  his, —  but  he  deserved  it  not. 

This  Duma  is  one  of  the  most  popular  in  Poland.  It 
is  also  the  subject  of  one  of  the  best  of  the  Polish  trag- 
edies by  Wenzyk. 

DUMA. 

POTOCKI. 

"  Stuchajcie  rycerze  mlodzi." 

Come,  listen  youthful  warriors,  now, 

While  my  sad  tale  of  grief  is  told ; 
And  let  it  kindle  glory's  glow 

While  it  records  the  deeds  of  old. 
For  I  will  sing  the  glorious  wreath 

Which  erst  the  patriot  hero  wore 
Who  nobly  died  a  hero's  death 

While  crown'd  with  laurel'd  victory  o'er. 

Chmielnicki's  fierce  and  savage  band 

Had  ravaged  our  Podolia's  vales; 
The  cries  of  mothers  fill'd  the  land, 

Wide-echoed  round  from  hills  and  dales. 
Our  ploughmen  from  their  fields  are  torn, 

Our  maidens  shameless  slavery  prove, 
Our  shepherds  are  to  exile  borne, — 

Not  to  be  exiled  from  their  love. 

Potocki  —  old  and  hoary  —  stood 

Proud  in  felicity  and  fame, 
When  the  loud  shrieks,  the  cry  of  blood, 

Like  soul-disturbing  tempests  came. 
He  sigh'd;  a  stream  of  tears  roll'd  down 

His  venerable  cheeks,  while  thought 
Rush'd  on  the  brighter  moments  gone. 

But  age  had  come,  and  left  him  —  nought. 


172       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

The  will,  but  not  the  power,  was  there. 

Down  dropp'd  the  falchion  from  his  grasp. 
But  see  his  hero  son  appear  — 

Spring  on  his  steed  —  the  war-brand  clasp. 
Why  should  he  waste  in  ease  and  sloth 

The  brightness  of  his  morning  star, 
When  virtue  and  when  valor  both 

Had  charm 'd  his  ear  with  tales  of  war? 

"  My  son," — his  eyes  with  tears  were  fill'd  — 

"  Thy  country  groans !     Go,  warrior!  be 
Thy  bosom  now  thy  country's  shield, — 

Be  worthy  of  thy  sires  and  me ! 
Go !  —  for  thy  country  live !     Be  blest 

With  triumph  glorious  and  renown'd ! 
So  calmly  shall  I  sink  to  rest 

When  1  have  seen  thee  victory-crown'd." 

A  fond  farewell  sent  forth  his  son, 

When  he  had  bound  him  to  his  breast. 
He  put  the  heavy  armor  on; 

The  while  a  golden  helmet  prest 
The  raven  ringlets  of  his  hair: 

Yet  ere  he  sought  his  warriors  he 
Saw  midst  many  a  maiden  fair 

His  maiden  at  a  balcony. 

She  was  a  maid  of  beauty  rare  — 
The  loveliest  maid  Podolia  knew  — 

Fair  as  the  morning  rose  is  fail- 
When  blushing  and  when  bathed  in  dew. 

And  she  was  true  to  love  and  fame, 

And  young, —  and  pledged  her  hand  and  heart 

To  him  whose  valiant  sword  should  claim 
In  battle  fray  the  bravest  part. 

Then  drew  the  ardent  hero  nigh, 
And  lowly  bent  on  reverent  knee: 


NIEMCEWICZ.  173 

"0  thou,  my  heart's  felicity, 

All,  all  life's  sweets  I  owe  to  thee! 
Now  bless  me  in  the  field  of  death, 

And  smile  upon  me,  struggling  there. 
My  heart's  best  blood,  my  latest  breath, 

I'll  pour  for  fame  and  thee,  my  fair!" 

His  heart  was  full  —  he  spoke  no  more. 

Her  eyes  were  wet  —  the  maid  unbound 
The  snow-white  scarf  her  bosom  wore, 

And  girt  the  hero's  shoulders  round. 
"  Go !  rescue  what  is  lost !     My  vow 

By  this  pure  pledge  shall  fail  thee  never! 
Be  crown'd  with  bright  affection  now, 

Be  crown'd  with  bliss,  with  fame,  forever!" 

Meanwhile  the  piercing  clarions  sound, 

The  dust-clouds  o'er  the  plains  arise; 
The  troops  of  warriors  gather  round. 

While  helms  and  armor  dim  the  eyes. 
The  courts,  the  gates,  the  lofty  walls 

A  thousand  anxious  gazers  show. 
The  slow-descending  drawbridge  falls, 

While  to  the  gory  fight  they  go. 

'Twas  evening.     Through  a  gloomy  night 

Toward  the  Yellow  Lake  they  sped. 
The  morning  came,  but  not  in  light, — 

'Twas  wrapp'd  in  clouds  opaque  and  red. 
The  mighty  army  of  Bogdan 

Spread  countless  o'er  the  extended  land; 
The  brave  Potocki  led  the  van, 

To  smite  the  innumerable  band. 

Then  dreadful  havoc's  reign  was  spread, 
The  murd'rous  fires  of  death  were  there; 

Swords  cleft  the  helm  and  helmed  head, 
And  hissing  arrows  fill'd  the  air. 


174      POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

The  dauntless  chieftain  fought, — he  press'd 
The  foremost  on  the  foe, — when  deep 

A  deadly  arrow  pierced  his  breast; 
He  fell, — fell  lock'd  in  endless  sleep. 

Yet  victory  crown'd  our  arms.     'Twas  vain; — 

It  was  no  triumph ; — He  away, 
Courage  and  joy  were.turn'd  to  pain. 

They  throng'd  around  him  in  dismay: 
They  bathed  his  wounds;  they  wash'd  the  gore 

With  tears, — while  round  the  corpse  they  stand 
Then  on  their  shields  that  corpse  they  bore, 

Their  hope — and  of  their  fatherland. 

And  on  a  green  and  woody  glade 

'Neath  a  proud  tomb  his  dust  they  set; 
They  hung  his  armor  and  his  blade, 

And  that  white  scarf, — with  blood  'twas  wet. 
And  there  through  many  a  day  forlorn, 

His  joy-abandon'd  maiden  went; 
And  from  the  evening  to  the  morn 

She  pour'd — she  wept — love's  sad  lament. 

Sleep,  noble  hero!  sweetly  sleep 

Within  this  dark  and  sacred  wood; 
The  silent  moon  her  watch  shall  keep 

Upon  thy  gravestone's  solitude. 
And  should  some  future  warrior  come, 

And  the  decaying  trophies  see, 
His  eye  may  linger  on  thy  tomb, 

And  learn  to  fight  and  die  from  thee. 


*  Translation  of  the  four  lines  on  the  frontispiece : 

Ye  exiles,  roaming  through  the  world  so  helplessly  and  long, 
When  will  your  weary  feet  find  rest,  0  broken-hearted  throng! 
The  wild  dove  finds  its  hidden  nest,  the  worm  its  native  cloa, 
But  Poland's  son  can  only  claim  of  earth  a  burial  sod!  * 


FASTIDIANA.  175 

FASTIDIANA. 
(GUZDRALSKA.) 


In  an  old  tatter'd  chronicle,  whose  pages 

Had  been  defaced  and  stain'd  by  ruthless  time,- 

A  dusty  fragment  of  departed  ages, 

When  Casimir,  the  monk,  o'er  Poland's  clime 

As  sovereign  ruled, — but  older  far  than  he, — 

I  found  this  strange,  recorded  history. 

Near  £enczyca,  upon  a  flowery  mound, 
A  proud  and  noble  mansion  look'd  around, — 
Its  name  I  have  forgotten;  and  'twere  vain 
To  rack  my  broken  memory  again. 
But  an  old  manuscript  that  long  was  hid, 
Moth-eaten,  'neath  a  crumbling  cofter-lid; 
It  tired  my  weary  eyes, — though  I  possess'd 
A  microscopic  glass, — the  brightest,  best, 
Which  magnified  a  hundredfold,  at  last 
Gave  me  some  light, — and  my  reward  was  vast. 

There  lived  a  noble,  whose  proud  wish  aspired 
To  honor, — and  he  found  what  he  desired. 
A  Truchses*  now, — and  next  a  Stolnik^.     His 
Were  piles  of  wealth, — and  towns  and  palaces. 
That  matters  not:  his  pride,  his  boastings  were 
Of  his  fair  daughter.     She  was  passing  fair; 
And  bounteous  Nature  o'er  that  maiden  threw 
All  charms  man  loves,  and  all  he  honors  too. 
She  was  a  very  queen  of  grace,  whose  skill 
Play'd  with  the  heart  and  wielded  it  at  will. 

*  Wine-bearer :  f  Plate-bearer ; — titles  at  court.    . 


176  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

The  story  of  her  beauty,  like  a  breeze 
That  bears  perfume,  spread  through  the  provinces, — 
Spread  o'er  the  land;  and  many  a  raptured  youth 
Laid  at  her  feet  the  vows  of  love  and  truth. 

They  saw  her,  and  were  lost:  a  single  glance 
Of  that  bright,  lovely,  laughing  countenance 
Won  all  the  soul.     No  wonder; — the  control 
Of  wit  and  beauty  ever  wins  the  soul. 
And  was  she  faultless  ?     No !  one  little  sin — 
For  she  was  human — one  alone  crept  in ; 
One  little  fault  or  error,  which — Heaven  knows — 
Was  a  dust-atom  on  a  scarlet  rose. 
What  could  this  little  dangerous  error  be? 
Time  and  the  maiden  never  could  agree. 
She  knew  not  wherefore  years  should  be  divided 
In  days  and  nights  and  hours, — and  years  derided: 
She  thought  that  time,  to  please  a  maiden's  whim, 
Mighty  tarry: — little  knew  the  maid  of  him. 
She  deem'd  her  smile  should  stop  the  hurrying  day, 
When  in  delights  and  feasts  it  sped  away; 
And  the  wing'd  hours  in  their  swift  flight  restrain, 
And  to  a  rock  time's  slippery  spfrit  chain. 
E'en  thus  she  lived,  and  dreams  like  these  employ'd 
The  shifting  moments  which  those  dreams  enjoy 'd. 
Her  dawn  was  noon, — time's  dawn  her  middle  night,- 
Always  too  late ;  her  place,  though  noblest,  might 
Remain  unfill'd.     At  table  she  first  came 
When  all  was  over;  and  'twas  just  the  same 
E'en  when  a  new  piece  charm'd  the  theater; 
At  the  last  act's  last  scene  she  would  appear 
Nor  at  the  church,  0  mortal  sin!  before 
The  careful  beadle  closed  the  sacred  door. 
She  was  her  parents'  hope,  her  parents'  bliss, 
So  no  reproaches  smote  the  maid  for  this. 


FASTIDIANA.  177 

Yet  there  is  pleasure, — so  the  record  says, — 
Sweet  pleasure  in  these  lingerings,  these  delays: 
And  none  of  her  admirers  loved  her  less, — 
Many  and  noble, — for  her  tardiness. 
But  one  was  privileged  o'er  the  rest, — and  he 
Was  the  young  Wojewod  of  Kujavy; 
He  bore  Guzdawa's  arms.     (And  those  who  bear 
These  old  insignia,  Paprocki*  supposes 
Were  long  distinguished  for  their  length  of  noses, 
Their  large,  bright  eyes,  their  crisp  and  curly  hair. 
Unwearied  in  all  enterprise,  in  war 
Supremely  valiant, — rather  superstitious, — 
Amorous  as  born  beneath  love's  famous  star.) 
Indeed  our  Wojewodzicf  was  ambitious 
To  be  a  true  Guzdawa;  and  the  youth, 
In  size,  form,  virtues,  was  their  heir,  in  truth. 
His  life  was  stainless,  and  'twas  decorated 
With  all  the  gems  of  talent.     Happy  fated, 
He  won  the  lady's  promise  to  be  his, 
And  parents'  blessings  crown'd  the  promised  bliss. 
Then  his  brains  swam  in  joy,  and  rapture  threw 
Her  sunshine  on  the  moments  as  they  flew. 
Four  weeks  before  the  paschal  feast  began 
The  nuptial  preparations.     Mad  desire 
Made  days  and  hours  and  moments  as  they  ran 
Linger  like  years,  whose  lingering  footsteps  tire ; 
But  hope,  and  meditations,  and  soft  sighs 
Relieved  their  tardy  passage,  as  he  brought 
Her  paramount  wit,  her  gentle  voice,  to  thought; 
The  million  graces  playing  round  her  eyes, 
And  her  white  hands,  'bove  all,  so  purely  fair, 
No  ivory  with  their  brightness  could  compai-e. 

*  A  famous  beraldist  of  old  time. 

f  Wojewodzic,  son  of  the  Wojewod;  and  so  Sedzic,  son  of  the  judge; 
Choronzyc,  son  of   the  ensign; — ic  is  here    synonymous  with  the 
Russian  wicz,  or  vich,  or  vitch. 
12 


178       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

A  thousand  and  a  thousand  times  he  said, 

"She  is  indeed  the  sweetest,  loveliest  maid!" 

And  then  a  thought, — sad  thought, — would  oft  intrude : 

"  She's  so  forgetful,  though  so  fair  and  good ! 

'Tis  surely  not  her  fault,  but  time's;  who  may, 

And  no  doubt  does,  mistake  the  time  of  day. 

But  let  us  wed, — this  weakness  shall  be  check'd; 

'Tis  a  slight  fault,  and  easy  to  correct. 

Watches  and  clocks  shall  hang  on  every  wall, 

And  silver  hammers  all  the  hours  recall; 

Hours,  minutes,  seconds, — monitors  like  these 

Will  chase  the  maid's  obliviousness  with  ease." 

So  was  he  satisfied, — and  his  doubts  were  gone. 

The  marriage  contract  sign'd,  and  all  was  done: 

And  the  church  doors  were  open'd  for  the  pair ; 

Gorgeous  and  great  was  the  assemblage  there. 

The  bridegroom  sallied  forth  from  his.  abode, 

And  no  unhappy  omen  stopp'd  his  road: 

He  came  with  friends  and  relatives  who  wore 

Their  sable  furs — adorn'd,  as  well  became 

Men  who  did  honor  to  so  proud  a  name. 

With  dazzling  gold  and  sunny  scarlet  o'er. 

The  chronicle  describes  the  gay  parade, 
And  well-plann'd  order  of  the  cavalcade. 
Twelve  trumpeters  in  Flemish  garments  clad, 
Which  many  a  splendid  decoration  had. 
And,  as  the  Wojewodzic  long  had  headed 
His  father's  hussar  troops,  a  numerous  band 
Of  spearmen  the  procession  next  preceded; 
Upon  their  shoulders  wings  of  eagles  flapp'd 
And  quivers  full  of  silver  arrows  rattled 
Behind  them  as  they  forward  moved  embattled; 
Round  each  a  leopard  skin  was  loosely  wrapp'd, 
Its  claws  and  tusks  were  fasten'd  on  the  breast. 
The  standards  revel'd  with  the  winds,  and  prancing 


FASTIDIANA.  179 

Their  richly  saddled  steeds  appear'd  advancing, 

Their  riders  all  in  martial  sternness  drest.* 

Then  came  a  troop  of  Tartars, — such  as  sate 

With  the  lord's  household,  or  watch'd  round  his  gate; 

And  each  his  bows  and  arrows  bore, 

And  a  wide-flowing  mantle  wore, 

Bending  his  proud  and  sprightly  Bachmatf  o'er. 

Next  thirty  youthful  squires  led  thirty  steeds 

To  decorate  the  scene ; — their  race  proceeds 

From  most  renown'd  Arabia,  and  the  shore 

Of  the  Euphrates, — whence  to  Poland's  plains 

Transferr'd  their  fame,  their  ancient  fame,  remains; 

So  proud,  so  ardent,  that  the  wearied  hand 

Of  their  tired  rider  could  restrain  no  more 

Their  noble  spirits  to  his  mute  command. 

They  toss'd  their  hoofs  in  air; — the  golden  bit 

Was  cover'd  o'er  with  foam; — their  nostrils  broad 

As  if  with  glowing  sparks  of  fire  were  lit: 

Proud  were  their  trappings,  as  the  knights  who  rode; 

The  saddles  were  all  set  in  turquoises, 

And  the  rich  housings  swept  the  very  ground : 

Pearls  were  profusely  scatter'd  o'er  the  dress; 

A  target  at  the  saddle  hung ;  and  near 

A  truncheon  and  a  crooked  scimitar; 

Rubies  and  sapphires  sparkled  all  around, 

With  smaragds,  topazes,  whose  lights  and  dyes 

Blinded  the  eyes. 

Next  came  a  troop  of  friends,  sedate  but  gay; 

Their  silk  and  velvet  garments  fill'd  the  way, 

Bound  with  resplendent  girdles;  and  they  held 

Their  battle-axes, — for  their  rank  was  high ; 

Then  six  proud,  dappled  steeds  the  car  impell'd, 

Where  sat  the  bridegroom  in  his  ecstasy, 

*  This  description,  though  rather  grotesque,  is  a  correct  delinea- 
tion of  the  costume  of  the  old  Polish  hussars, 
f  Bachmat ; — a  Tartar  horse. 


180       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Eight  golden  columns  bore  a  canopy 

Of  richest  velvet,  and  the  youth  was  clad 

In  most  superb  brocade;  his  under  vest 

Of  crimson,  which  a  row  of  buttons  had 

Of  sapphires  and  of  rubies  of  the  East. 

There  was  a  clasp,  whose  glorious  brightness  never 

Could  be  described — so  I  shall  not  endeavor: 

It  was  a  carbuncle  so  large  that  kings 

Might  envy, — brighter  than  the  sun  which  flings 

His  glories  o'er  the  noon.     Upon  his  head 

High  plumes  above  a  splendid  bonnet  spread. 

Two  noble  youths  sate  by  him:  one  the  son 

Of  the  Wyszogrod  pennon-bearer;  one 

Grod's  wealthy  heir;  but  both  of  brilliant  eyes, 

And  gay  in  humor;  and  their  heads  were  bare.* 

Next  a  long  train  of  squires  and  knights  appear, 
With  their  attendants  in  rich  liveries; 
Each  wore  a  splendid  scarf  with  garments  meet. 
The  cavalcade  was  closed  by  a  long  suite 
Of  six-horsed  heavy-laden  coaches,  which 
Bore  presents  for  the  bride,  superb  and  rich. 
Beautiful  pearls  from  Uria,  ear-rings,  gems, 
Bracelets,  and  jewels  fit  for  diadems, 
And  fit  a  lady's  eyes  to  please:  nor  were 
The  richest  clocks  and  watches  absent  there. 
While  thus  the  sun  toward  the  church  was  bent, 
His  busied  father  stay'd  at  home,  intent 
On  the  approaching  festival.     He  stored 
With  giant  goblets  the  capacious  board, 
With  plates  of  silver  and  with  cups  of  gold; 
Emboss'd  tureens,  and  rich-carved  bowls,  to  hold 
Medals  of  ancient  days, —  the  cups  and  vases, 
Gilded  and  rich,  had  their  appointed  places. 

*  It  was  aii  old  custom  with  the  Poles  to  shave  their  heads. 


FASTIDIANA.  181 

From  distant  forests,  wagons  brought  vast  stores 
Of  their  wild  tenants,  deer  and  fawns  and  boars, 
Game  without  number, —  which  six  master-cooks 
Who  bore  their  German  caps,  prepared  with  all 
The  due  formalities  of  cookery  books. 
Mincemeats  and  spices; — but  I'll  not  recall 
These  long  details.    The  noblest  thing  they  did 
Was  to  erect  a  mighty  pyramid 
Of  almonds  crusted  o'er  with  sugar.     Can 
Aught  in  the  art  exceed  a  Marcipan?* 

A  curiously-constructed  lynx  portray 'd 

The  escutcheons  of  the  bridegroon  and  the  maid, 

Gordowa's  and  Eogala's:  and  a  brand 

Of  Cupid's  fire  they  held  in  either  hand. 

The  table  was  weigh'd  down  by  luxuries  rare, 

And  all  the  neighboring  men  of  rank  were  there; 

Prelates  and  senators;  our  Truchses  vow'd 

To  give  the  act  its  due  solemnity, 

And  went  to  Skirniewic  with  a  crowd 

Of  friends  and  of  dependants,  but  to  see 

The  venerable  primate,  and  entreat 

That  he  would  honor  his  poor  house,  and  be 

The  officiating  minister,  as  meet. 

So  the  guests  came  at  last.    You  wish  to  know 
How  they  were  housed ; —  I  cannot  tell  you  how. 
The  dwelling  had  four  rooms  and  one  saloon; 
(A  splendid  mansion,  then!)  the  guests  were  driven 
To  rather  closish  quarters;  but  'twas  soon 
Arranged.     One  chamber  to  the  primate  given; 
The  others  where  they  could  repose  their  head; 
And  all  slept  soundly,  though  they  had  no  bed. 
Then  dawn'd  the  happy  moment.     At  eleven 

*  Marcipan.    A  large  round  cake  adorned  with  various  emblem- 
atical figures.    It  is  still  used  by  the  peasantry  at  wedding  festivals. 


182       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

'Twas  fix'd  the  nuptial  pledges  should  be  given 

Before  the  sacred  altar.     Parents,  friends, 

Were  seated  in  the  church;  the  clergy  led 

The  primate,  with  his  mitre  on  his  head, 

His  pastoral  staff  in  hand, —  who  now  ascends 

His  throne.    The  tapers  are  enkindled.    Where, 

Where  is  the  bride? — They  wait  an  hour, —  they  sent 

To  ask  what  cause,  what  luckless  accident 

Delay'd  her.     Lo!  he  comes!  —  the  messenger 

Begs  for  a  short  delay.     One  stocking  she, 

The  lady  had  got  on,  and  speedily 

Would  finish  with  the  other.    Well !  they  wait ; — 

Time  lingers,  lingers  still.    The  clock  strikes  Three- 

They  send  again.     'Twas  strange  she  should  forget 

The  hour,  she  said; — but  she  would  braid  her  hair, 

And  in  a  very  twinkling  would  be  there. 

One  hour, —  and  yet  another, —  five  o'clock, 

When  other  heralds  at  her  chamber  knock; 

She  just  was  fixing  on  her  robes  a  wreath, 

And  would  come  instantly.    The  well-bred  sun 

Linger'd;  but  as  his  patience  soon  was  done 

He  sank  the  occidental  hills  beneath. 

But  love  had  made  the  bridegroom  angry,  while 

Hunger  attack'd  the  guests;  their  empty  skins 

Began  to  be  rebellious;  'tis  a  vile 

Peace-breaker,  that  said  hunger; — they  had  thought 

Of  the  rich  feast;  some  little,  and  some  nought 

Had  taken;  so  they  suffer'd  for  their  sins. 

Oh,  had  they  but  some  bread  and  sausage  brought! 

At  last  the  ladies  yawn'd;  a  senator 

Open'd  his  gasping  mouth  from  ear  to  ear; 

The  primate  was  observed  to  whiten, —  then 

The  bridegroom  rose,  and  to  the  castle  fled, 

Entreating  on  his  knees  the  lingering  maid 

To  hasten,  though  undress'd:  "Just  tariy;  when 


FASTIDIANA.  183 

I've  tied  this  bow,"  the  lady  said,  "  I'll  come, — 
I'll  come  indeed." 

He  hasten'd  back, —  he  heard 

A  blending  of  strange  sounds  which  struck  him  dumb; 
He  enter'd; — first  the  primate's  form  appear'd 
Sunk  in  the  canon's  arms; — he  look'd  around; 
Knights,  senators,  were  stretch'd  upon  the  ground, 
Two  palatines,  three  barons, —  vanquish'd  all 
By  heat  and  hunger;  tears  of  anguish  fall 
Down  the  parental  cheeks; — his  love  turn'd  cold, 
"  Ere  thou  art  dress'd,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  grow  old; 
And  if  to-day  thou  trifle  thus,  to-morrow  " — 
He  said  no  more;  but  sprung  with  silent  sorrow 
Into  his  car,  and  fled.     Such  haste  was  wrong; 
But  young  men's  passions  are  perverse  and  strong. 
His  hurry  did  no  good; — and  those  who  marry 
Should  ne'er  fall  out  with  things  that  make  them  tarry. 
Yet  a  few  hours, —  even  though  impatient, —  he 
Had  been  rewarded.     'Twas  exactly  three, 
Three  in  the  morning,  when  the  lovely  lady 
Dress'd  for  the  altar  —  all  adorn'd  and  ready. 


184       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


DMOCHOWSKI. 

FRANCIS  XAVIEK  DMOCHOWSKI  was  born  in  the  year 
1762,  in  the  province  of  Podlasie.  He  attended  the 
school  of  the  fathers  Piiars,  and  in  1778  joined  the 
order,  and  was  employed  as  teacher  in  Radom,  fcomza, 
and  Warsaw.  He  then  lived  with  KoHontaj,  through 
whose  influence  he  obtained  a  parsonage  at  Koto. 
Dmochowski  was  very  active  during  the  great  Diet, 
and  published  "The  Official  Gazette"  up  to  the  1st  of 
November,  1794.  Having  left  Poland  to  travel  in  for- 
eign countries  he  did  not  return  till  1800,  when  he  was 
married  to  an  estimable  lady,  Isabella  Mikorska,  and 
they  published  during  the  following  five  years  a  liter- 
ary review.  He  translated  Homer's  "Iliad,"  Milton's 
"Paradise  Lost,"  and  Virgil's  "^Eneid,"  as  also  let- 
ters and  satires  of  Horace.  His  funeral  oration  on  the 
death  of  Archbishop  Krasicki  is  one  of  the  finest  efforts 
of  the  kind.  He  died  in  1808. 

In  the  year  1826  the  miscellaneous  writings  of 
Dmochowski  were  published  at  Warsaw  in  two  vol- 
umes. Dmochowski  has  rendered  great  services  to 
Polish  literature,  and  in  fact  he  was  counted  among 
the  most  distinguished  writers  of  the  day.  His  verse 
is  very  smooth  and  harmonious,  and  we  may  justly 
add  that  he  greatly  contributed  toward  the  spread  of 
literary  knowledge  among  the  masses.  He  lived  long 
enough  to  see  several  editions  of  his  works,  which 
serves  as  a  proof  of  his  popularity  as  a  writer  of  those 
days,  for  he  has  indeed  left  an  indelible  impression 
upon  the  pages  of  Polish  literature.  During  his  whole 
life  Dmochowski  endeavored  to  be  useful  in  the  cause 
of  literature  and  national  advancement. 


DMOCHOWSKI.  185 

CRACOW'S  ENVIRONS. 

Dear  to  my  heart  is  every  spot  of  earth 
On  Poland's  bosom,  where  her  sons  had  birth. 
For  me,  on  Cracow's  fair  surroundings  fall 
A  charm,  which  makes  them  loveliest  of  all! 
At  every  turn,  where'er  the  footstep  strays, 
So  many  souvenirs  arrest  the  gaze ; 
So  many  records  of  the  past  which  tell 
Of  Poland's  day  of  glory  ere  she  fell. 

CASTLE   OF   OYCOW. 

Ye  who  have  wandered  thro'  each  foreign  land 
Have  marked  the  Seine  and  Tiber's  silver  course, 
And  raised  the  eye  to  Alpine  summits  grand, 
Should  ye  not  blush  to  seek  for  beauty's  source 
In  other  countries  than  your  own?     Behold 
Where  scenes  as  beautiful  arrest  the  eyes 
In  Oycow's  groves  and  forests  manifold  — 
Its  river's  flow,  its  rocks  that  grandly  rise ! 


186       POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  POLAND. 


MINASOWICZ. 

-  JOSEPH  DIONISIUS  MINASOWICZ  (b.  1798,  d.  1849). 
In  this  distinguished  litterateur  we  find  two  talents  com- 
bined, which  are  considered  as  diametrically  opposite 
to  each  other,  to  wit,  Law  and  Poetry  —  a  combination 
of  a  similar  kind  is  seldom  found  in  one  and  the  same 
individual.  While  a  professor  in  the  University  of 
Warsaw  he  was  a  learned  expounder  of  the  history  of 
the  Roman  and  commercial  law,  and  then  again  he 
appears  before  the  world  as  an  elegant  poet  and  a 
translator  of  Schiller's  works,  which  difficult  task  he 
accomplished  most  successfully.  Many  of  his  fugitive 
pieces  are  written  with  peculiar  correctness  of  style  and 
elegance  of  expression.  All  of  his  works  were  pub- 
lished at  Leipsic,  1844.  Mr.  Minasowicz  was  a  man 
of  refinement,  generous  disposition,  and  a  profound 
scholar. 

THE   MAIDEN   AND   THE   ROSE. 

I  the  strong  resemblance  see 
Between  a  blooming  rose  and  thee; 
Yet  when  the  charms  of  both  I  view 
My  fancy  gives  the  wreath  to  you. 
The  rose  its  loveliness  displays 
At  most  a  few  short  passing  days, 
Then  fades  —  as  I  behold  it  now, 
And  it  will  shortly  die.     Whilst  thou, 
The  theme  of  my  poetic  strain, 
Unchanged  forever  shalt  remain ! 


MINASOWICZ.  187 

WHAT   YOU   ARE. 
(WRITTEN  WHEN  A  LAD.) 

The  flower  stays  in  the  same  place 

And  hardly  moves  at  all, 
Waits  for  the  rain  to  wet  its  face, 

Till  wind  the  dust  makes  fall. 

But  who  is  blessed  with  legs  can  flee, 

Swiftly  and  with  power 
Can  run ;  so,  0  God,  I  thank  Thee 

I  am  not  a  flower. 

And  animals  have  legs  also, 

As  our  dog  has  —  our  Tray; 
But  they  such  converse  must  forego 

As  folk  may  use  alway. 

Between  a  goose  and  sheep  tell  me 

How  converse  could  be  brought? 
Impossible!     I  thank  Thee,  God, 

An  animal  I'm  not. 

No  animal  —  a  man  am  I, 

Language  can  hear  and  heed  — 
Can  send  my  happy  prayer  on  high, 

And  also  I  can  read. 

My  elders  know  in  great  degree, 

And  in  a  few  years'  span 
I'll  be  like  them.     God,  I  thank  Thee 

That  I  was  born  a  man ! 


188       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


FELltfSKI. 

ALOIZY  FELSINKI,  the  celebrated  translator  of  De- 
lille,  left  after  him  a  historical  drama  entitled  "Barbara 
RadziwiJ,"  the  appearance  of  which  awakened  a  desire 
in  all  the  poets  of  that  time  to  study  history.  This 
famous  drama  was  rendered  with  such  great  adherence 
to  historical  truth,  such  consummate  knowledge  of  man- 
ners, customs-,  and  traditions,  that  it  created  the  great- 
est admiration  in  the  public  mind.  Felinski  was  a  poet 
who  was  capable  of  infusing  into  his  Tragedy  of  Bar- 
bara more  nationality  than  any  of  his  contemporaries. 
On  that  account  Barbara  Radziwii  will  ever  remain  a 
lasting  monument  of  Polish  literature.  He  was  also  the 
author  of  a  "Dissertation  on  Orthography,"  In  his  epoch 
Felinski  was  considered  as  the  brightest  literary  star. 

Felinski  was  born  in  1771,  at  Luck,  in  the  province 
of  Volhynia.  He  went  to  school  in  Dombrowice,  estab- 
lished by  the  Order  of  Piiars,  and  in  1790  became  an 
intimate  friend  of  Thaddeus  Czacki,  the  great  friend  of 
learning.  In  the  revolution  of  Kosciuszko  he  was  that 
chieftain's  aid.  After  the  war  he  spent  some  time  in 
Germany,  and  on  his  return  to  Poland  he  settled  in  the 
village  of  Osow,  where  he  resided  till  1815.  In  that 
year  he  came  to  Warsaw,  where  he  was  called  to  the 
professorship  of  literature.  In  1819  he  became  the 
director  of  the  Lyceum  of  Krzemieniec,  as  also  the 
professor  of  literature.  He  died  in  1820. 

POLISH    NATIONAL    HYMN. 
"BOZE   COS  POLSKE." 

0  Lord,  thou  hast  to  Poland  lent  thy  might, 
And  with  a  Father's  strong,  protecting  hand 


FELINSKL  189 

Hast  given  fame  and  all  its  glory  bright, 
And  through  long  ages  saved  our  fatherland. 
We  chant  at  thy  altars  our  humble  strain, 
0  Lord,  make  the  land  of  our  love  free  again! 

Thou  who  in  Nature's  deepest  gloom  inspired 
The  strife  to  save  the  holy  cause  from  shame, 
The  world's  esteem  for  our  brave  deeds  desired, 
And  filled  it  with  our  glory  and  our  fame. 
We  chant  at  thy  altars  our  humble  strain, 
0  Lord,  make  the  land  of  our  love  free  again ! 

Renew,  0  Lord,  we  pray,  her  old  renown! 

Make  rich  her  soil, — life  to  her  fields  convey, 

With  happiness  and  peace  our  future  crown; 

0  angry  God,  grant  us  this  boon  we  pray! 
We  chant  at  thy  altars  our  humble  strain, 
0  Lord,  make  the  land  of  our  love  free  again! 

Not  long  our  freedom  has  been  lost,  but  flows 

In  rivers,  blood  which  heroes'  hearts  outpour; 

How  bitter,  then,  the  suiferings  of  those 

Whose  liberty  is  lost  forevermore! 
We  chant  at  thy  altars  our  humble  strain, 
0  Lord,  make  the  land  of  our  love  free  again ! 

0  gracious  Lord!  whose  mighty  hand  doth  hold 

The  scales  of  justice  o'er  world's  rulers  vain, 

Crush  out  unholy  aims  of  tyrants  bold 

And  hope  awake  in  our  poor  souls  again. 
We  chant  at  thy  altars  our  humble  strain, 
0  Lord,  make  the  land  of  our  love  free  again! 

Thou,  holy  Lord!  thy  wond'rous  might  we  praise, 

Oh  may  it  freedom's  blissful  sun  restore, 

On  Polish  soil  the  tower  of  peace  upraise 

Which  foes  shall  tremble  and  recoil  before! 
We  chant  at  thy  altars  our  humble  strain, 
0  Lord,  make  the  land  of  our  love  free  again! 


190       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

0  Loi'd!  who  rules  o'er  all  the  wide  world  hath, 
At  thy  command  we  raised  from  dust  may  be; 
If  in  the  future  we  deserve  thy  wrath 
Turn  us  to  dust — but  let  that  dust  be  free ! 
We  chant  at  thy  altars  our  humble  strain, 
0  Lord,  make  the  land  of  our  love  free  again! 

FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  BARBARA  RADZIWIi,. 

ISABELLA,  SISTEK  OP  SIGISMUND  AUGUSTUS,  TO  BOHATYNSKI. 

Yes,  she  has  all  my  friendship,  I  glory  in  that  truthj 

She  was  a  most  beloved  companion  of  my  youth; 
When  I  felt  life  a  burden  and  fainted  'neath  its  weight, 

She  was  the  first  to  show  me  life's  joys  were  also  great. 
When  the  czar  with  all  the  power  of  the  East  and  North  ' 

To  blot  out  the  Polish  Nation  drew  his  dread  sword  forth, 
Her  sire  hastening  to  his  post  at  the  army's  head, 

To  Lithuania's  frontiers  whence  his  duty  led, 
To  risk  the  doubtful  issue  of  a  battle,  all  knew 

Must  be  fierce  and  final,  in  my  presence  bade  adieu 
To  Sigismund,  the  king,  and  these  were  the  words-  he  said: 

"  'Tis  Victory  or  Death,  freely  shall  my  blood  be  shed 
For  thee  and  for  my  country  a  grateful  offering, 

And  thou  shalt  soon  behold  me  a  conqueror,  my  king, 
Or  thou  wilt  never  see  me  outside  the  land  of  souls, 

My  lips  shall  never  tell  thee  of  the  defeat  of  Poles ; 
But  let  my  only  daughter,  this  favor  I  would  crave — 

With  no  one  to  protect  her, — her  mother  in  the  grave, — 
When  her  father,  too,  is  lost,  a  father  find  in  thee." 

Alas!  the  dreadful  stroke,  which  he  seemed  then  to  foresee 
Fell  heavily  upon  him,  that  warrior  true  and  tried, 

He  went,  he  fought  with  valor,  he  conquered,  and  he  died. 


KROPLNSKI.  191 


KROPINSKL 

Louis  KROPINSKI  is  placed  in  the  first  rank  of  Polish 
poets  principally  because  of  his  authorship  of  the  trag- 
edy "Ludgarda,"  the  incidents  of  which  were  founded 
upon  fiction  instead  of  historical  truth.  Yet  it  is  so 
well  written  that  it  was  compared  with  Barbara  Radzi- 
wil  of  Felinski.  It  contains  indeed  many  beautiful 
passages,  but,  on  the  whole,  it  reminds  one  that  it  is 
an  imitation  of  French  tragedies.  At  this  present 
time,  aside  from  fine  poetic  verses,  it  has  no  value. 
In  its  own  time,  however,  it  caused  a  great  sensation 
on  account  of  its  powerful  dramatic  effect. 

He  is  also  the  author  of  a  novel,  "Julia  and 
s  Adolph,  or  Extraordinary  Love  of  Two  Young  People 
on  the  Bank  of  the  River  Dniester."  In  this  novel  it 
was  the  purpose  of  the  author  to  show  that  the  Polish 
language  was  capable  of  equal  harmony  and  expres- 
sions of  the  most  delicate  shades  of  feeling  with  any 
French  production  of  a  similar  kind.  He  also  com- 
posed many  beautiful  fugitive  pieces. 

Kropiiiski  was  born  in  Lithuania  in  1767.  During 
the  reign  of  Stanislaus  Augustus  he  entered  the  mili- 
tary service,  and  as  a  lieutenant-colonel  participated  in 
the  battle  of  Maciejowice  in  1794,  and  received  in  that 
memorable  battle  thirteen  wounds.  After  that  event 
he  went  to  Italy,  and  as  a  true  connoisseur  he  collected 
many  valuable  works  of  art,  and  brought  them  to  Po- 
land. On  his  return  he  acted  as  secretary  of  war.  In 
1812  he  was  named  general  of  brigade,  and  soon  after 
advanced  to  the  rank  of  a  general  of  division.  After 
the  end  of  the  war  he  married,  and  gave  himself  up 


192  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

entirely  to  domestic  life.  He  was  honored  with  the 
friendship  of  Thaddeus  Czacki,  and  made  inspector  of 
schools  and  colleges.  He  was  also  a  distinguished 
member  of  the  "Society  of  the  Friends  of  Learning" 
in  Warsaw.  Ten  years  before  his  death  he  became 
blind,  and  died  in  1844.  His  "Ludgarda,"  written  in 
1809,  was  brought  out  on  the  stage  in  1816.  It  was 
translated  into  German  by  Melish  and  Pol  de  Pollen- 
burg  (brother  of  the  poet  Vincent  Pol).  Goethe  gave 
a  flattering  opinion  of  ' '  Ludgarda. "  All  of  Kropiriski's 
writings  were  published  at  Lemberg  in  1844. 
• 

HUMAN   LIFE. 

As  by  eternal  decree, 

Four  seasons  in  the  year  there  be, 

So  has  a  man  — 
Four  seasons  in  life's  span. 

In  the  spring, 
Fearless  and  rejoicing  — 
We  bask  in  youth's  glad  beam ; 
Our  eagle  souls  are  like  the  birds: 
We  sing,  we  soar,  we  fly, 
Ever  loftier  and  more  high  — 
And  in  this  joyful  career, 

Sweeping  through  life  on  rapid  wing, 
At  errors  of  our  sires  we  sneer  — 

But  into  the  same  traps  we  spring! 
For  youth  has  many  a  trap  and  net, 
Crags  and  lures  its  path  beset. 

In  summer,  too,  it  still  is  pleasant. 

With  beams  divine, 
When  the  bloom  is  most  bountiful, 

The  moon  does  shine  — 


KROPINSKI.  193 

Far  o'er, 

We  soar  — 
But  not  so  fleet 
During  the  heat:     • 
Begin  we  then  the  shade  to  prize, 
Within  whose  depths  experience  lies. 

In  autumn, 

Less  bright  the  fields  of  green  become  — 
Leaves  grow  sere,  and  fall  here  and  thither, 
And  with  them  our  hopes  begin  to  wither. 
No  longer  gaily  do  we  sing; 
And  tears  at  times  bedim  the  eye. 
Still  later  —  'though  the  sun  shines  high, 
And  upon  its  rays  at  times 
Sends  a  breath  of  balmy  climes ; 
That  breath  reminds  us  of  the  spring, 
But  ah,  it  is  no  more  the  same  thing! 
The  memory  of  those  vanished  days 
Whispers:  "  We  ne'er  will  come  again!" 
This  thought  a  poignant  torture  has: 
No  longer  we  do  soar  and  sweep, 
But  oft,  alas!  in  silence  weep. 
But  even  that  season  chimes 
With  pleasantness  at  times. 
It  is  a  sort  of  "  talking  matters  over," 
The  Past,  and  what  future  time  does  cover; 
Chatting  with  friends,  prospects  and  aims, 
This  or  that,  the  heart  most  dearly  claims. 

At  last  the  winter  reigns, 
Nature  is  held  in  frosty  chains, 
And  the  white  grass-plots 
Glisten  with  diamond  dots, 

As  if  to  amuse  children. 
13 


194  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

But  then,  we  can't  so  easily  be  beguiled, 
Since  unlike  in  the  spring,  summer  and  autumn, 
By  growth  of  green  forgotten, 
Life  to  death  seems  reconciled. 

We  begin  to  complain  of  the  present, 
And  only  the  Past  we  call  pleasant — 

We  prate, 

And  ruminate; 

Our  senses  we  can  scarce  employ, 
Like  hours  the  moments  slowly  ebb; 
And  like  a  spider  from  its  web, 
From  stuff  of  flimsy  make, 
Which  any  little  wind  may  break, 
We  draw  our  joy! 

We  exist  only  by  a  fear 

Lest  something  should  break — 
We  know  not  which  course  to  steer, 

Uncertain  which  road  to  take. 

Where  are  we  to  live?  what  does  await? 

Thus  by  the  eternal  decree, 
Man's  stay  on  earth  does  terminate; 

In  life's  fourth  goes  he. 
And  in  his  journey  woe  betide 

Who  to  the  realms  of  endless  bliss 

Has  not  pure  conscience 
For  a  guide ! 

A  FRAGMENT  FROM  HIS  ELEGY  ON  HEDWIGE, 
QUEEN  OF  POLAND. 

Too  soon  she  drained  the  cup  of  bitterness, 
Though  her  life's  op'ning  days  seemed  born  to  bless; 
And  with  a  sadness  sweet  she  bore  each  bitter  grief, 
Religion  was  her  shield,  pure  conscience  her  relief. 


OSINSKI.  195 


OSI1&BKI 

Louis  OSINSKI  was  not  only  a  superior  poet,  but  also 
a  learned  litterateur  and  a  distinguished  orator.  He 
was  born  in  the  province  of  Podlasie  in  1775,  and 
received  the  first  rudiments  of  education  at  the  insti- 
tution of  Piiars,  at  Lomza,  where  he  endeavored  to 
fit  himself  for  the  profession  of  a  teacher.  Unfavor- 
able circumstances,  however,  connected  with  political 
changes  in  Poland,  changed  also  his  purpose  in  that 
respect.  But  he  was  always  industrious,  and  never 
slacked  in  his  literary  pursuits. 

During  the  Prussian  government  of  that  part  of  the 
country  he  published  a  volume  of  poetry  which  was 
well  received  by  the  public.  But  the  poetical  field  was 
not  the  only  one  he  traveled.  He  acquired  great  fame 
as  an  orator.  His  legal  argument  delivered  before  the 
high  court  in  -defense  of  Col.  Siemianowski  was  not 
only  very  learned,  but  also  one  of  the  most  eloquent 
eiforts  of  the  day.  Another  effort  of  Osinski  — "Eulogy 
on  Xavier  Dmochowski,"  a  distinguished  Polish  poet 
—  delivered  before  the  society  of  "Friends  of  Learn- 
ing," only  increased  his  fame  as  a  national  orator.  His 
command  and  skill  in  the  effective  use  of  the  Polish 
language  was  considered  as  something  extraordinary. 
When  he  lectured  on  literature  hundreds,  and  we  may 
say  thousands,  of  the  most  refined  and  learned  people 
listened  to  him  with  admiration. 

During  the  existence  of  the  "  Duchy  of  Warsaw  "  he 
was  called  into  the  public  service  as  a  secretary  in  the 
department  of  justice,  and  subsequently  as  chief  clerk 
of  the  court  of  Cassation.  In  1818  he  was  chosen  as. 


196  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

a  professor  of  literature  in  the  University  of  Warsaw. 
Osinski  also  published  a  literary  journal  with  a  Latin 
motto:  u  Omnes  tulit  punctum  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci " 
(Containing  all  the  points  —  the  useful  with  the  pleas- 
ant). 

His  poetical  compositions  and  translations  of  dramas 
and  comedies,  together  with  his  lectures  on  literature 
and  his  eloquent  orations,  were  published  at  Warsaw 
in  1861  and  1862.  He  died  in  1838. 


IN   PRAISE   OF   COPERNICUS. 


The  highest  sphere  of  mortal  glory  lies 

In  power  to  read  the  heavenly  signs  aright. 
My  song  is  worthy  of  Olympian  height 

To  speed  its  flight.     Urania,  arise! 
The  fickle  power  of  man  to  me  is  known  — 

Such  little  grandeur  I  unworthy  deem. 
My  thought  upreaches  to  the  star-girt  throne. 

I  sing  COPERNICUS  —  the  world  my  theme! 

ii. 

Free  from  earth's  fetters,  following  on  his  track 
I  from  unerring  starry  ways  look  back 
And  measure  nature's  breadth.     In  air  upheld 
These  bodies  by  mysterious  powers  propelled 
Roll  on,  ascend,  attract,  and  then  revolve, 
The  one  grand  end  harmoniously  to  solve. 
Shall  I  not  reach  at  last  where  Deity 

Himself,  an  august  presence,  guardeth  space, 
And  holds  the  countless  worlds  unweariedly 

Within  his  bosom  —  their  abiding  place! 


OSINSKL  197 

in. 

Insolent  man,  and  perishable  race! 

Dust  raised  by  pride  which  called  the  heavens  its  own, 
And  deemed  that  nature's  aim  likewise  was  base  — 

To  grasp  all  worlds,  and  rear  to  self  a  throne! 
0  Men,  mistaken,  and  of  judgment  blind! 

Hath  not  the  world  recorded  age  ou  age 

To  man  unknown,  where  failed  the  clear-eyed  sage 
To  fathom  God's  unfathomable  mind! 

IV. 

"  Must  we  for  all  high  knowledge  vainly  pray 
To  Thee,  0  God,  whose  omnipotence  lies 
Veiled  in  these  outspread  heaven's  immensities? 

Rend  thou  from  them  the  veiling  clouds  away! 
Show  us  thy  wonders !     Man,  though  frail  he  be, 
Moved  by  Thy  spirit,  grows  more  like  to  Thee!" 

Thus  spoke  one  man  —  not  having  any  thought 
Of  what  the  envious  night  withheld  from  us. 

Thus,  after  lapse  of  ages  that  had  wrought 
Their  work  in  darkness  —  came  COPERNICUS. 


Even  as  the  power  of  the  creating  word 

To  nature's  shapeless  germs  gave  life  and  force 
While  all  the  listening  void  of  chaos  stirred, 

And  moved  to  music  in  harmonious  course, 
So  in  the  gloom  by  ages  darkly  shed, 

Kindled  by  Thee,  Copernicus,  a  spark 
Of  truth  arose  —  by  no  illusion  bred  — 

To  overcome  the  world's  abysmal  dark! 

VI. 

'Twas  night.     The  pale  and  queenly  moon  arose. 
Man  slept,  forgetful  of  his  troubled  days. 


198  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAXD. 

All  earthly  creatures  breathed  a  calm  repose 

Save  one  alone,  who  watched  with  upturned  gaze 
From  where  the  Baltic's  welcoming  shore  outspread 
The  wondrous  course  of  planets  overhead. 
Never  had  he  beheld  so  grand  a  sight! 
On  him  a  sense  of  glory  seemed  to  smite. 
0  hour  supreme!     0  soul-inspiring  thought! 
To  crush  the  error  by  the  ages  wrought. 

VII. 

0  sudden  change!     Is  it  but  nature's  power 

Revealing  all  these  mysteries  to  his  sight, 
Or  changes  order  with  the  changing  hour? 

Does  God  unseal  his  eyes  to  read  aright? 
The  eternal  structure  shines  resplendently, 

Its  secret  workings  to  his  gaze  revealed  — 
More  wondrous  in  their  grand  simplicity 

Than  in  their  vast  immensity  of  field. 

VIII. 

From  the  unending,  in  a  moment's  space 

Nature  to  fairer  form  and  stature  grew. 
Behold,  ye  shades  immortal!  from  your  place, 

How  man's  exploring  mind  creates  anew! 
0  Mind,  that  sought  creation's  bound  to  span ! 

What  thoughts  enchained  thee  —  what  emotions  fired 
When  nature's  triumph,  joined  to  that  of  man, 

Placed  thee  on  heights  to  which  thy  soul  aspired! 
Science !  thy  power  o'er  nature  reaches  wide  — 

Brings  close  the  worlds  that  distance  separates  — 
And  gives  to  dust  the  fashions  that  abide. 

Strength  and  perfection  on  its  presence  waits, 
And  through  thy  skill,  as  by  enchantment  swayed, 

The  multitude  of  forms  around  us  change. 
Yet  sought  Copernicus  of  thee  no  aid  — 

His  skill  and  vision  took  a  higher  range. 


OSINSKI.  199 

His  were  the  inner  forces  that  unite 

To  break  all  fetters  —  his  the  power  to  soar 
Beyond  this  world  of  sense  in  upward  flight 

To  conquer  all  unconquerable  lore! 
Higher  he  reached  than  any  of  his  race, 

And  the  grand  problems  over  which  he  wrought 
Shall  in  all  after  ages  take  their  place 

But  as  the  consummation  of  his  thought. 

IX. 

As  wreck  and  ruin  leave  their  trace  behind 

When  hurricanes,  that  sweep  in  fury  blind, 
Level  and  overthrow  with  fearful  shock 
Both  fragile  structure  and  unyielding  rock, 
So  ruin  marks  the  ages  in  their  flight. 

Races  are  born  and  perish  from  the  earth. 
Earth  changes  form  before  the  wondering  sight, 

Her  old  achievements  grown  of  little  worth. 
But  thou,  Copernicus!  whose  living  fame 

Becomes  our  glory  —  thou  shalt  conquer  Time, 
While  the  unnumbered  ages  bear  thy  name 

Into  eternities  that  roll  sublime! 
And  while  the  Pole  around  which  planets  flame 

Performs  the  ponderous  task  by  thee  foreseen, 
Thine  own  remembered  —  fills  the  space  between ! 


200       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


JOSEPH  WYBICKL 

"POLAND  is  NOT  YET  LOST"  is  the  most  celebrated 
Polish  historical  song  extant.  After  the  third  parti- 
tion of  Poland,  in  1795,  her  enemies  said:  "There  is 
no  Poland,"  but  very  soon  after  the  sons  of  Poland, 
who,  under  the  command  of  the  renowned  General 
Dombrowski  fought  in  Italy,  began  to  sing  "Poland 
is  not  yet  lost,"  which  was  a  strong  protest  against  the 
partition  of  our  country.  That  patriotic  song  was  com- 
posed by  Joseph  Wybicki.  General  Dombrowski,  the 
organizer  of  the  Polish  legions  in  Italy  (born  1755, 
died  1818),  actually  entered  Poland  at  the  head  of  his 
legion  in  1807,  and  crossed  the  river  Warta,  and  thus 
the  prediction  of  the  song  was  verified. 

This  patriotic  Polish  song  has  been  in  bygone  years, 
and  is  up  to  this  day,  sung  all  over  Europe,  and  we 
may  say  in  all  parts  of  the  habitable  globe  wherever  a 
Pole  is  found.  It  is  always  sung  with  a  longing  cheer- 
fulness while  hope  is  strengthening  the  realization  of 
the  happy  future  in  store  for  his  suffering  country. 

"Wybicki  was  born  in  1.747  near  Dantzic.  He  took 
an  important  part  in  the  four-years  Polish  Diet,  in  the 
revolution  of  Kosciuszko,  and  in  1806-7.  During  the 
existence  of  the  Duchy  of  Warsaw  he  was  a  senator, 
and  in  1818  held  the  high  office  of  the  supreme  judge. 
He  died  in  1822.  •  Wybicki  left  very  interesting  mem- 
oirs, which  were  published  by  Raczynski  in  Posen, 
1840. 

Many  years  ago  the  editor  of  this  work  had  the  song 
set  to  music  and  published  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia. 


JOSEPH    WYBICKI  201 

POLAND   IS   NOT   YET   LOST. 
(Jeszcze  Polska  nie  zgingla.) 

While  we  live  she  is  existing, 

Poland  is  not  fallen ; 
We'll  win  with  swords  resisting, 

What  the  foe  has  stolen. 

March,  march,  Dombrowski, 

From  Italy's  plain; 
Our  brethren  shall  meet  us 

In  Poland  again! 

We'll  cross  where  Warta's  surging 

Gloomily  its  waters, 
With  each  blade  from  sheath  emerging 

Poland's  foes  to  slaughter! 
March,  march,  etc. 

Hence  unto  the  field  of  glory, 

Where  the  life's  blood's  streaming; 

Where  with  talons  red  and  gory, 
Poland's  eagle's  screaming! 
March,  march,  etc. 

Poland!  shall  the  foe  enslave  thee 

Sadly  and  forever; 
And  we  hesitate  to  save  thee? 

Never,  Poland,  never! 

March,  march,  Dombrowski, 

From  Italy's  plain; 
Our  brethren  shall  meet  us 

In  Poland  again! 


f" 


MICKIEWICZ. 

IN  YOUNGER    DAYS. 


MICKIEWICZ.  203 


MICKIEWICZ. 

ADAM  MICKIEWICZ,  one  of  the  greatest  of  Poland's 
poets,  and  indeed  considered  by  many  the  greatest  of 
all.  Almost  simultaneously  with  the  daybreak  of  the 
morning  star  in  Polish  literature,  there  appeared  in 
the  firmament  of  poesy  a  pleiad  of  most  extraordinary 
poetic  minds.  New  bards  stepped  forward,  and  their 
songs  in  sounds  of  delightful  harmony  penetrated  al- 
most every  corner  of  Poland  with  melodies  full  of  feel 
ing  and  ardent  love  of  their  country. 

At  that  time,  especially,  circumstances  surrounding 
the  nation  were  at  once  exciting  and  uncertain,  furnish- 
ing adequate  elements,  from  the  sources  of  which 
countless  inspiring  themes  were  drawn  and  sung  with 
patriotic  boldness  throughout  the  land.  And  the  peo- 
ple looked  at  the  bards  with  astonishment  and  pride,— 
and  well  they  might.  They  began  to  discover  in  these 
new  creations  deep  and  philosophic  truths,  though 
hidden  in  the  imagery  of  poesy.  They  could  see 
better  their  past,  and  began  to  unveil  their  future.  In- 
deed, under  these  poetical  figures,  in  perfect  harmony 
with  the  national  spirit,  were  brought  to  light  the  na- 
tion's genius  and  its  future  destiny.  Thus  a  new  and 
fertile  evolution  of  Polish  poetry  created  new  bards 
of  uncommon  genius,  who  produced  works  of  exalted 
order  which  will  be  immortal  as  themselves. 

Mickiewicz  is  one  of  those  who  is  indebted  to  this 
creative  genius,  in  which  he  so  prominently  distin- 
guishes himself,  and  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  un- 
derstand how  to  govern  the  elements  of  this  peculiar 
time.  His  poetic  conceptions,  supported  by  reasoning 


204       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

and  proofs,  balanced  in  the  scales  of  extraordinary 
genius,  accomplished  what  he  wished;  and  hence  he 
created  a  new  epoch  in  his  country's  literature  known  as 
"  PSEUDO-ROM  ANTIC."  It  can  be  said  of  him  what  was 
once  said  of  Herder,  "  That  he  was  the  first  to  lift  the 
world  of  Poesy  on  his  shoulder,  and  that  he  still  car- 
ries it."  In  their  feelings  of  admiration  the  Polish 
people  had  it  at  the  time  that  Mickiewicz  was  "  called  " 
to  be  the  greatest  creative  genius  of  their  nation,  and 
they  were  right — for  he  had  lifted  them  higher  than 
they  were  ever  before.  In  this  respect  Mickiewicz  is 
really  the  representative  not  only  of  the  people  but 
also  of  their  feelings.  Happily,  too,  for  him,  that  the 
materials  for  the  epoch  had  already  been  prepared  for 
him;  'and  that  he  understood  its  spirit  is  shown  in  his 
"  Primrose."  Being  as  it  was,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that'his  poetry  permeated  the  hearts  and  souls  of  the 
whole  people,  an  occurrence  seldom  to  be  met  with  in 
historical  annals. 

"When  Mickiewicz's  poetry  first  appeared  it  created 
an  unprecedented  furor.  Poetic  inspiration  took  com- 
plete hold  of  the  people.  Everyone,  and  especially 
those  possessed  of  fine  feelings  and  who  could  under- 
stand him,  read  his  verses  with  unusual  enthusiasm, 
and  committed  many  striking  pages  to  memory  so  as  to 
recite  them  to  others.  All  felt  as  if  they  were  inspired 
and  enchanted  by  his  poetry. 

Mickiewicz  exceeds  all  the  poets  in  the  power  of 
phantasy  and  beauty  of  expression.  It  is  true  that  he 
frequently  indulged  in  allegory  and  mysticism,  which 
at  times  are  unintelligible,  but  it  is  the  opinion  of  the 
masses  these  things  did  not  detract  an  iota  from  their 
merits.  His  poetry  is  so  multifarious  and  diverse,  and 
written  under  so  many  different  circumstances,  that  it 


MICKIEWICZ.  205 

may  be  said  there  is  not  a  branch  which  lie  had  not 
touched  and  in  which  he  did  not  excel. 

When  Mickiewicz  was  creating  such  tremendous  im- 
pressions on  the  young  men  and  women,  there  was,  of 
course,  as  it  generally  happens  in  similar  cases,  a  feel- 
ing of  jealousy  engendered  among  the  amateurs  of  the 
pseudo-classic  school  against  this  innovation  in  poetry. 
The  disaffected  ones  met  at  dinner  circles,  coffee-houses 
and  club-rooms,  to  discuss  and  decry  this  new  state  of 
things  gotten  up  without  their  advice  and  consent,  but 
their  adverse  deliberations  were  in  vain  and  fell  harm- 
less by  the  way.  Even  some  newspapers  begun  severe 
criticisms,  but  the  pulse  of  the  public  heart  beat  too 
strong.  They  could  neither  stifle  the  enthusiasm  for 
the  young  and  gifted  bard  nor  their  admiration  for  his 
splendid  and  inimitable  poetic  creations.  But  what  is 
equally  interesting  to  note  is  that  these  gentlemen  lit- 
terateurs began  themselves  to  wheel  into  the  popular 
ranks,  and  eventually  became  devotedly  attached  to 
the  new  Pseudo-Romantic  school. 

Of  all  poetical  creations  of  Mickiewicz  as  regards 
themes  and  forms  which  present  themselves  to  the 
learned  critic  is  a  poem  bearing  the  title  "  The  Ances- 
tors." The  intention  of  this  poem  is  ostensibly  the  edu- 
cation of  philosophic  thoughts  in  regard  to  man's  rela- 
tions to  the  world.  His  "Grazyna"  is  also  a  great 
poem,  but  relating  to  the  incidents  of  olden  times. 
"Conrad  Wallenrod"  is  a  historical  poem,  the  subject 
of  which  is  the  crusade  against  Lithuania,  exhibiting 
great  sacrifice  and  love  of  country.  "Pan  Tadeusz  " 
is  a  national  epopee,  in  which  Mickiewicz's  genius  as  a 
poet  is  fully  shown.  "Crimean  Sonnets,"  written 
under  most  pleasing  impressions  during  his  sojourn 
in  that  charming  peninsula.  "Erotic  Sonnets"  and 


206  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

"Farys"  bear  a  stamp  of  foreign  climes.  Mickie- 
wicz  also  translated  Byron's  '"  Giaur."  "The  Book 
of  the  Polish  Nation  and  the  Pilgrimage  of  Its  Peo- 
ple "  is  written  in  biblical  style,  and  very  beautifully, 
too,  because  of  its  solemn  and  impressive  eloquence. 
That  was  the  last  and  the  crowning  labor  of  the  poet. 

The  entire  groundwork  of  Mickiewicz's  poetry  is 
feeling,  which,  if  we  may  thus  express  ourselves,  he 
has  communicated  to  his  countrymen  in  a  burning 
state;  letting  them  know  their  greatness  as  a  people, 
and  their  misfortunes,  and  pointing  out  to  them  a  lesson. 
In  this  Mickiewicz  has  done,  perhaps,  the  greatest  ser- 
vice to  his  countrymen,  because  if  a  nation  has  no  such 
bards  they  cannot  possibly  have  a  full  knowledge  of 
themselves. 

Mickiewicz  was  born  on  the  24th  of  December, 
1798,  in  a  town  called  Zaosie,  in  Lithuania.  He  re- 
ceived the  first  rudiments  of  education  with  the  Order 
of  Dominicans  at  Nowogrod  (Newtown).  In  1815  he 
entered  the  University  of  Wilno,  where  he  contracted 
the  most  friendly  and  affectionate*  ties  with  Thomas 
Zan,  a  young  man  of  rare  qualities  of  the  heart  and 
mind.  It  was  a  happy  circumstance  in  Mickiewicz's 
life  to  have  met  young  Zan  (of  whom  we  will  speak 
under  the  proper  head),  for  this  young  man  having  dis- 
covered great  poetic  genius,  took  him  under  a  brother- 
ly care  and  stimulated  him  to  noble  actions  and  to  the 
unfolding  of  his  poetic  powers.  The  editor  of  this 
work  remembers  well  reading  in  younger  days  this  in- 
teresting incident  of  friendly  attachment,  and  the  im- 
pression lasted  through  life. 

After  finishing  his  studies  in  the  university  he  was 
obliged  to  accept  the  professorship  of  Polish  and  Latin 
literature  at  Kowno;  then  he  returned  to  Wilno  again. 


MICKIEWICZ.  207 

Even  at  this  period  (in  1822)  Mickiewicz  had  already  a 
great  reputation  as  a  poet,  gained  by  his  "Ballads," 
"  Romances,"  ki  Grazyna,"  and  the  fourth  part  of  *4  The 
Ancestors,"  which  we  mentioned  above.  About  this 
time  the  Russian  Government  suspected  some  political 
irregularity  among  the  prominent  young  men  of  Wilno, 
and  instituted  an  investigation.  The  consequence  was 
that  over  a  dozen  of  the  best  and  most  intellectual 
young  men  were  arrested  and  sent  into  the  depths  of 
Russia.  Mickiewicz  and  Zan  were  among  them.  In 
1824  he  was  carried  to  St.  Petersburg,  but  on  account 
of  his  already  great  fame  he  was  well  received  by  the 
educated  Russians.  Among  many  friendships  con- 
tracted in  the  capital  of  Russia  was  one  of  the  renowned 
Russian  poet  Puschkin.  Here  Mickiewicz  wrote  his 
"  Ode  to  Youth."  After  a  while  he  was  transported  to 
Odessa,  and  was  employed  in  Prince  Woronzow's 
office.  Prince  Woronzow,  being  an  enlightened  and 
polished  gentleman,  treated  the  poet  with  much  kind- 
ness. Here  he  commenced  his  "  Conrad  Wallenrod," 
and  "  Crimean  Sonnets."  In  the  year  1825  he  was  sent 
to  Moscow,  where  he  had  a  place  in  the  office  of  the 
military  governor,  Golibyn.  Here  it  was  where,  through 
the  instrumentality  of  Princess  Zeneida  Wolkonska, 
the  salons  of  the  most  distinguished  families  were 
open  to  him  ;  the  princess  took  him  under  her  protec- 
tion and  procured  for  him  from  the  Russian  Govern- 
ment permission  to  reside  at  Moscow.  She  nursed 
him  in  sickness,  and  translated  his  poems  into  the 
Russian  language.  In  the  year  1828  he  was  again 
transferred  to  St.  Petersburg,  was  well  received  there, 
and  became  acquainted  with  Alexander  Humboldt.  On 
account  of  his  "  Wallenrod  "  he  was  accused  by  the 
government,  but  through  the  influence  of  Princess 


208       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Zeneida  received  an  unlimited  passport  to  Italy,  Ger- 
many, and  France.  His  friend  Olenin  facilitated  his 
journey  to  Cronstadt,  from  whence  the  poet  sailed  for 
Lubeck.  In  a  few  days  after  his  departure  orders  were 
received  for  his  arrest,  but  the  government  officials 
were  too  late. 

In  his  travels  through  foreign  countries  he  was 
accompanied  by .  Odyniec,  with  whom  he  visited  Ber- 
lin, Dresden,  Carlsbad,  and  Praga,  and  returning  to 
Germany  he  stopped  at  Weimar  and  made  a  visit  to 
Goethe,  who  received  him  with  great  hospitality, 
respect  and  admiration.  From  Weimar  through  Rhen- 
ish provinces  he  returned  to  Switzerland,  whence, 
through  Splugen,  Como,  Milan,  Yerona,  Padua,  Yen- 
ice,  and  Florence,  he  arrived  at  Rome,  where  he 
remained  till  May,  1830,  and  was  received  with  marks 
of  great  distinction  by  the  highest  society,  and  invited 
to  the  "Tuesday  Assemblies  "  at  the  house  of  Queen 
Hortense  (mother  of  Napoleon  III). 

From  Rome  he  visited  Naples,  Messina,  Palermo, 
and  lighted  his  cigars  in  the  clefts  of  the  Crater  on 
Mount  Yesuvius;  later,  returning  by  way  of  Rome  to 
Switzerland,  he  stopped  at  Milan,  and  became 
acquainted  with  the  most  celebrated  Italian  poets, 
Gross,  Manzoni,  and  Fosti.  Through  Lago  Maggiore 
and  Chamouni  he  went  to  Geneva,  where  for  the  first 
time  he  learned  of  the  "July  Revolution"  at  Paris, 
which  he  had  months  before  predicted.  Here,  too, 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Sigismund  Krasinski,  the 
illustrious  Polish  poet.  Parting  at  this  place  with 
Odyniec,  his  personal  friend  and  companion  of  his 
travels,  he  started  for  Rome.  It  was  here  and  at  this 
time  that  the  most  intimate  and  affectionate  friendship 
sprung  up  between  him  and  Stephen  Garczynski,  a 


MICKIEWICZ.  209 

young  Polish  poet  of  great  genius.  In  1831  he  left 
Rome  and  journeyed  through  Switzerland  to  Paris, 
from  whence,  in  company  of  Anton  Gorecki,  the  poet, 
he  left  for  Dresden,  and  visited  the  .Grand  Duchy  of 
Posen.  In  the  same  year  he  returned  to  Dresden, 
where  he  wrote  his  "  Pan  Tadeusz."  In  the  following 
year  he  went  to  Geneva,  where  he  composed  the  third 
part  of  "  The  Ancestors."  It  is  from  this  place  that 
Mickiewicz  took  his  friend  Garczynski  to  Avignon, 
where  he  closed  his  eyes  in  eternal  sleep.  He  was  so 
overcome  by  his  friend's  death  that  he  thought  of  going 
to  America  and  seek  seclusion;  but  his  friends  dis- 
suaded him  from  the  idea,  and  he  returned  with  them 
to  Paris.  He  shortly  married  Miss  Celina  Szymanowska, 
a  lady  of  great  worth  and  many  accomplishments. 
This  interesting  event  occurred  in  1834.  From  this 
time  hence  he  became  a  husband  and  a  father  of  a 
family,  but  he  never  again  touched  the  strings  of  his 
lute,  —  at  least  his  countrymen  never  heard  its  sounds. 
In  1839  he  was  called  to  the  professorship  of  Ancient 
Literature  at  Lussanne,  which  in  about  a  year  he  left 
to  accept  a  professorship  of  Slavonian  Literature  at  the 
College  de  France,  in  Paris,  where  he  lectured  for 
about  four  years. 

It  was  here  and  about  this  time  that  he  became 
acquainted  with  a  certain  Andrew  Towiafiski,  who 
pretended  to  possess  extraordinary  powers  of  clairvoy- 
ance, and  who  by  strong -magnetic  powers  exerted  a 
great  influence  over  the  poet,  but  fortunately  it  was  but 
for  a  short  spell.  In  the  early  part  of  1855  he  lost  his 
wife,  and  in  June  was  commissioned  by  the  French 
Government  to  proceed  to  Constantinople  in  order  to 
investigate  the  condition  of  the  Slavonic  races  under 
the  Turkish  Government.  Armand  Levy,  a  Hebrew, 
14 


210       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

and  Henry  Sluzalski  accompanied  him  on  this  mission. 
After  arriving  at  their  destination  they  visited  the  camp 
of  Sadyk  Pasha  (Michael  Czaykowski),  but  incon- 
venient life  and  the  prevailing  cholera  laid  the  poet  on 
his  dying  bed,  from  which  he  arose  only  to  be 
taken  to  his  last  resting  place.  His  death  occurred  the 
28th  of  November,  1855,  in  the  presence  of  his  two 
faithful  companions  and  friends,  Sluzalski  and  Levy. 
The  mortal  remains  of  the  greatest  poet  were  taken  to 
Paris  and  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  Montmorency. 
Through  the  endeavors  and  influence  of  Dr.  Matecki, 
of  Posen,  a  monument  was  erected  to  the  immortal 
poet  in  1859,  executed  by  the  artistic  chisel  of  Stanis- 
laus Oleszczysnki,  the  Polish  sculptor. 

There  are  many  editions  of  his  works  issued  at 
different  times  and  at  different  places,  such  as  Wilno, 
Moscow,  Warsaw,  St.  Petersburg,  Paris,  Posen,  Leip- 
zig, Wadowice,  Thorne,  etc.  The  most  complete  edition 
of  Adam  Mickiewicz's  works  has  been  published  in 
several  volumes  by  his  children  in  Paris — 1869. 

PRIMROSE. 

(Pierwiosnek.) 

Scarce  had  the  happy  lark  begun 
To  sing  of  Spring  with  joyous  burst, 

When  oped  the  primrose  to  the  sun  — 
The  golden  petaled  blossoms  first. 

I. 

'Tis  yet  too  soon,  my  little  flower, 

The  north  wind  waits  with  chilly  breath; 

Still  capped  by  snow  the  mountains  tower, 
And  wet  the  meadows  lie  beneath. 


MICKIEWICZ.  211 

Hide  yet  awhile  thy  golden  light, 
Hide  yet  beneath  thy  mother's  wing, 

Ere  chilly  frosts  that  pierce  and  blight, 
Unto  thy  fragile  petals  cling. 

PRIMROSE. 

Like  butterflies  our  moments  are, 
They  pass,  and  death  is  all  our  gain; 

One  April  hour  is  sweeter  far 

Than  all  December's  gloomy  reign. 

Dost  seek  a  gift  to  give  the  gods? 

Thy  friend  or  thy  beloved  one? 
Then  weave  a  wreath  wherein  there  nods 

My  blossoms  —  fairer  there  are  none. 

I. 

'Mid  common  grass  within  the  wood, 

Beloved  flower,  thou  hast  grown, 
So  simple  —  few  have  understood 

What  gives  the  prestige  all  thy  own. 

Thou  hast  na  hues  of  morning  star, 
Nor  tulip's  gaudy  turban'd  crest  — 

Nor  clothed  art  thou  as  lilies  are  — 
Nor  in  the  rose's  splendor  drest. 

When  in  a  wreath  thy  colors  blend, 
When  comes  thy  sweet  confiding  sense 

That  friends  —  and  more  beloved  than  friend, 
Shall  give  thee  kindly  preference? 

• 
PRIMROSE. 

With  pleasure  friends  my  buds  will  greet, 
They  see  Spring's  angel  in  my  face; 

For  friendship  dwells  not  in  the  heat, 
But  loves  with  me  the  shady  place. 


212  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND.. 

Whether  of  Marion,  beloved  one, 

Worthy  I  am  —  can't  tell  before?. . . . 

If  she  but  looks  this  bud  upon, 

I'll  get  a  tear  —  if  nothing  more!. .'. . 

ODE   TO   YOUTH. 
(Oda  do  Mfodo6di.) 

Without  soul-life  but  skeletons  are  we  — 
On  me,  0  Youth,  bestow  thy  wings! 
To  soar  about  this  hopeless  world, 
Into  the  regions  fair  to  see, 
Where  mind-created  imagery 

Strews  flowers  with  fancy's  dew  impearled, 
Arraying  hope  anew  in  life's  imaginings. 

Let  him  bowed  down  by  weight  of  years, 

With  brow  that  bears  time's  furrowing  touch, 
See  only  of  the  world  as  much 

As  to  his  dull,  dim  sight  appears! 

0  Youth!  above  this  level  send 

The  sunny  glances  of  thine  eye, 
And  penetrate  from  end  to  end 

Humanity's  immensity. 

Now  look  below  where  the  eternal  mists  unfold 
The  dark  expanse  that  chaos  does  o'erwhelm; 

The  earth  behold! 
Look  where  above  its  waters  dead 
A  shell-clad  reptile  lifts  its  head, 
Who  is  himself  both  ship  and  steersman  at  the  helm, 
Chasing  the  smaller  elemental  fry; 
Once  he  ascends,  then  down  again  he  sinks  — 
The  waves  cling  not  to  him,  and  from  their  clasps  he  shrinks; 

Then  as  a  bubble  bursts  —  collapsing  suddenly. 
None  of  his  life  knew  aught,  and  neither  is  he  missed  — 
It  was  an  Egotist! 


MICKIEWICZ.  213 

0  Youth !  the  nectared  wine  of  life  for  thee 
Is  only  sweet  to  taste  when  shared  by  others; 

As  heavenly  joy  unites  the  heart,  and  we 

Are  drawn  by  chords  of  love  more  closely.to  our  brothers. 

Together  then  unite,  my  friends! 

The  joy  of  one  alike  on  all  attends  — 

In  union  strong,  and  wise  in  frenzy's  heat, 

In  one  all  our  purpose  blends. 
And  happy  he  who  fails  to  win  a  name 
If  by  the  sacrifice  of  self  he  seat 
Another  on  the  topmost  round  of  fame. 

Unite  for  nobler  ends! 
Though  perilously  steep  the  path, 
And  violence  with  weakness  guard  the  gate, 
Let  violence  contend  alone  with  wrath, 
With  weakness  youth  may  strive,  and  striving  conquer  fate ! 

He  who  in  childhood  crushed  the  hydra's  head. 
Will  later -on  strike  the  centaurs  down, 
Will  wrest  from  hell  its  dead; 

Then  soaring  up,  win  laurels  for  his  crown ! 

Will  strain  his  gaze  beyond  all  human  sight, 

Crush  barriers  that  reason  cannot  shake. 
0  Youth!  thy  course  is  as  the  eagle's  flight, 

Thy  strength  like  thunderbolts  that  round  him  break! 

Then  shoulder  to  shoulder  linked,  as  by  one  common  chain, 
This  earthly  globe  we  will  surround, 
And  in  one  focus  drawn  of  thought  profound 

One  purpose  and  one  end  maintain! 
Earth!  move  from  thy  foundations  old, 
To  the  progression  of  our  thought, 
And  breaking  through  the  crust  that  time  has  wrought, 

Let  germs  of  greener  years  unfold! 

As  in  the  region  of  chaotic  night, 
Where  warring  elements  contended, 


214  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

'Mid  whirlwind's  ix>ar  and  torrent's  thundering  call, 
To  the  "  Be  tliou"  of  God's  creating  might, 
A  living  world  sprung  up,  and  over  all 
Illuming  stars  ascended! 

So  darkness  in  the  realm-soul  prevails, 
The  elements  of  will  are  still  at  war; 
But  love's  breath  of  living  fire 
Behold  the  spent  life  unveils! 

Through  which  youth's  heart  conceiving  shall  aspire, 
Joined  by  eternal  bonds  forever  more! 

The  icy  clod  revivifies, 

With  light  prejudice  disappears, 
Arise,  0  star  of  freedom,  rise ! 

The  morning  of  Redemption's  near! 

NEW   YEAR'S    WISHES. 

The  old  year  is  dead,  and  from  its  ashes  blossoms  bright 
New  Phoenix,  spreading  wings  o'er  the  heavens  far  and  near; 

Full  of  hopes  and  wishes,  earth  salutes  it  with  delight. 
What  should  I  for  myself  desire  on  this  glad  New  Year? 

Say,  happy  moments!  ...  I  know  these  lightning  flashes 
swift, 

When  they  the  heavens  open  and  gild  the  wide  earth  o'er, 
We  wait  the  assumption  till  the  weary  eyes  we  lift 

Are  darkened  by  a  night  sadder  than  e'er  known  before. 

Say,  'tis  love  I  wish !  .  .  .  that  youthful  frenzy  full  of  bliss 
Bears  one  to  spheres  platonic  —  to  joys  divine  I  know. 

Till  the  strong  and  gay  are  hurled  down  pain's  profound 

abyss, 
Hurled  from  the  seventh  Heaven  -upon  the  rocks  below. 

I  have  dreamed  and  I  have  pined.     I  soared  and  then  I  fell. 
Of  a  peerless  rose  I  dreamed,  and  to  gather  it  I  thought, 


MICKIEWICZ.  215 

When  I  awoke.     Then  vanished  the  rose  with  dream's  bright 

spell  —  , 

Thorns  in  my  breast  alone  were  left — Love  I  desire  not! 

Shall  I  ask  for  friendship?  .  .  .  that  fair  goddess  who  on  earth 
Youth  creates?     Ah!  who  is  there  who  would  not  friend- 
ship crave? 

She  is  first  to  give  imagination's  daughter  birth. 
Ever  to  the  uttermost  she  seeks  its  life  to  save. 

Friends,  how  happy  are  ye  ail !     Ye  live  as  one,  and  hence 
Ever  the  self-same  power  has  o'er  ye  all  control, 

Like  Armida's  palm  whose  leaves  seemed  separate  elements 
While  the  whole  tree  was  nourished  by  one  accursed  soul. 

But  when  the  fierce  and  furious  hail-storms  strike  the  tree, 
Or  when  venomous  insects  poison  it  with  their  bane, 

In  what  sharp  suffering  each  separate  branch  must  be 
For  others  and  itself.  ...  I  desire  not  friendship's  pain! 

For  what,  then,  shall  I  wish,  on  this  New  Year  just  begun? 

Some  lovely  by-place  —  bed  of  oak  —  where  sweet  peace 

descends, 
From  whence  I  could  see  never  the  brightness  of  the  sun, 

Hear  the  laugh  of  enemies,  or  see  the  tears  of  friends? 

There  until  the  world  should  end,  and  after  that  to  stay 
In  sleep  which  all  my  senses  against  all  power  should  bind, 

Dreaming  as  I  dreamt  my  golden  youthful  years  away, 
Love  the  world  —  wish  it  well  —  but  away  from  human- 
kind. 

TO   M . 


"Precz  z  oczu  moich  —  posluchain  od  razu." 

Hence  from  my  sight !  —  I'll  obey  at  once. 

Hence  from  my  heart !  —  I  hear  and  understand. 
But  hence  from  memory?     Nay,  I  answer,  nay! 

Our  hearts  won't  listen  to  this  last  command! 


216  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

As  the  dim  shadows  that  precede  the  night 
In  deepening  circles  widen  far  and  near, 

So  when  your  image  passes  from  my  sight 
It  leaves  behind  a  mem'ry  all  too  dear. 

In  every  place  —  wherever  we  became 
As  one  in  joy  and  sorrow  that  bereft  — 

I  will  forever  be  by  you  the  same, 
For  there  a  portion  of  my  soul  is  left. 

When  pensively  within  some  lonely  room 

You  sit  and  touch  your  harp's  melodious  string, 

You  will,  remembering,  sigh  in  twilight's  gloom 
"  I  sang  for  him  this  song  which  now  I  sing." 

Or  when  beside  the  chess-board  —  as  you  stand 
In  danger  of  a  checkmate  —  you  will  say, 

"  Thus  stood  the  pieces  underneath  my  hand 
When  ended  our  last  game  —  that  happy  day!  " 

When  in  the  quiet  pauses  at  the  ball 
You,  sitting,  wait  for  music  to  begin, 

A  vacant  place  beside  you  will  recall 
How  once  I  used  to  sit  by  you  therein. 

When  on  the  page  that  tells  how  fate's  decree 
Parts  happy  lovers,  you  shall  bend  your  eyes; 

You'll  close  the  volume,  sighing  wearily. 
'Tis  but  the  record  of  our  love  likewise. 

But  if  the  author  after  weary  years 

Shall  bid  the  current  of  their  lives  reblend, 

You'll  sit  in  darkness,  whispering  through  your  tears, 
"  Why  does  not  thus  our  story  find  an  end?" 

When  night's  pale  lightning  darts  with  fitful  flash 
O'er  the  old  pear  tree,  rustling  withered  leaves 

The  while,  the  screech-owl  strikes' your  window-sash, 
You'll  think  it  is  my  baffled  soul  that  grieves. 


MICKIEWICZ.  217 

In  every  place  —  in  all  remembered  ways 

Where  we  have  shared  together  bliss  or  dole  — 

Still  will  I  haunt  you  through  the  lonely  days. 
For  there  I  left  a  portion  of  my  soul. 

(From  the  "  Improvisation.") 
A  MOMENT   AND   A   SPARKLE. 

What  is  my  life? 
Ah!  but  a  moment  short  as  a  sigh! 

What  is  my  feeling? 
Ah !  but  a  sparkle  soon  to  die ! 
Whence  comes  the  little  man  that  plays  such  mighty  part? 

From  a  sparkle! 
What'll  be  the  time  that'll  crush  my  thoughts  and  my  heart? 

But  a  moment! 

And  those  thunders  that  shall  to  morrow  roar 
To-day  what  are  they  ?     But  a  sparkle ! 
What  are  the  world's  events  of  years,  and  my  lore? 

But  a  moment! 
What  was  He  then  when  in  his  bosom  held  this  world? 

But  a  sparkle ! 

What'll  be  the  time  when  all  will  crash  and  be  hurled 
Into  the  abyss  of  forgetfulness? 

But  a  moment! 

(From  the  "Ancestors.") 
She  is  fair  as  a  spirit  of  light 

That  floats  in  the  ether  on  high, 
And  her  eye  beams  as  kindly  and  bright, 

As  the  sun  in  the  azure-tinged  sky. 
The  lips  of  her  lover  join  hers 

Like  the  meeting  of  flame  with  flame, 
And  as  sweet  as  the  voice  of  two  lutes, 

Which  one  harmony  weds  the  same. 


218  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF   POLAND. 

(From  "  Faris.") 

No  palms  are  seen  with  their  green  hair, 
Nor  white-crested  desert  tents  are  there; 
But  his  brow  is  shaded  by  the  sky 
That  flingeth  aloft  its  canopy ; 
'The  mighty  rocks  lay  now  at  rest, 
And  the  stars  move  slowly  on  heaven's  breast. 

(From  the  same.) 

My  Arab  steed  is  black  — 

Black  as  the  tempest  cloud  that  flies 
Across  the  dark  and  mutt'ring  skies, 

And  leaves  a  gloomy  track. 

His  hoofs  are  shod  with  lightning's  glare, 

I  give  the  winds  his  flowing  mane, 
And  spur  him  smoking  o'er  the  plain, 

And  none  from  earth  or  heaven  dare, 
My  path  to  chase  in  vain. 

And  as  my  barb  like  lightning  flies, 

I  gaze  upon  the  moonlit  skies, 

And  see  the  stars  with  golden  eyes, 
Look  down  upon  the  plain. 

FATHER'S   RETURN.     (A   BALLAD.) 
(Powrot  Taty.) 

Go,  children,  all  of  you  together, 

To  the  pillar  upon  the  hill, 
And  there  before  the  miraculous  picture 

Kneel  and  pray  with  a  fervent  will. 

Father  returns  not.     Mornings  and  evenings 

I  await  him  in  tears,  and  fret. 
The  streams  are  swollen,  the  wild  beasts  prowling, 

And  the  woods  with  robbers  beset. 


MICKIEWICZ.  219 

The  children  heard,  and  they  ran  together 

To  the  pillar  upon  the  hill; 
And  there  before  the  miraculous  picture 

Knelt  and  prayed  with  a  fervent  will. 

"  Hear  us,  0  Lord !     Our  father  is  absent, 

Our  father  so  tender  and  dear. 
Protect  him  from  all  besetting  danger! 

Guide  him  home  to  us  safely  here! " 

They  kiss  the  earth  in  the  name  of  the  Father, 

Again  in  the  name  of  the  Son. 
Be  praised  the  name  of  the  Trinity  holy, 

And  forever  their  will  be  done. 

Then  they  said  Our  Father,  the  Ave  and  Credo, 

The  Commandments  and  Rosary  too; 
And  after  these  prayers  were  all  repeated, 

A  book  from  their  pockets  they  drew. 

And  the  Litany  and  the  Holy  Mother 

They  sang  while  the  eldest  led  — 
"  0  Holy  Mother,"  implored  the  children, 

"  Be  thy  sheltering  arms  outspread !  " 

Soon  they  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  approaching, 

And  the  foremost  wagon  espied. 
Then  jumped  the  children  with  joy  together. 

"  Our  father  is  coming!  "  they  cried. 

The  father  leaped  down,  his  glad  tears  flowing, 

Among  them  without  delay. 
"And  how  are  you  all,  my  dearest  children? 

Were  you  lonesome  with  me  away? 

"And  is  mother  well  —  your  aunt  and  the  servants? 

Here  are  grapes  in  the  basket,  boys." 
Then  the  children  jumped  in  their  joy  around  him, 

Till  the  air  was  rent  with  their  noise. 


220  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

"  Start  on,"  the  merchant  said  to  the  servants, 
"  With  the  children  I  will  follow  on;" 

But  while  he  spoke  the  robbers  surround  them, 
A  dozen,  with  sabers  drawn. 

Long  beards  had  they,  and  curly  moustache, 

And  soiled  the  clothes  they  wore, 
Sharp  knives  in  their  belts  and  swords  beside  them, 

While  clubs  in  their  hands  they  bore. 

Then  shrieked  the  children  in  fear  and  trembling, 

And  close  to  their  father  clung, 
While  helpless  and  pale  in  his  consternation, 

His  hands  he  imploringly  wrung. 

"  Take  all  I  have!  "  he  cried;  "  take  my  earnings, 

But  let  us  depart  with  life. 
Make  not  of  these  little  children  orphans, 

Or  a  widow  of  my  young  wife." 

But  the  gang,  who  have  neither  heard  nor  heeded, 

Their  search  for  the  booty  begin. 
"  Money !  "  they  cry,  and  swinging  their  truncheons, 

They  threaten  with  curses  and  din. 

Then  a  voice  is  heard  from  the  robber  captain, 
"  Hold!  hold!  with  your  plundering  here!  " 

And  releasing  the  father  and  frightened  children, 
He  bids  them  go  without  fear. 

To  the  merchant  then  the  robber  responded: 

"  No  thanks  —  for  I  freely  declare 
A  broken  head  you  had  hardly  escaped  with, 

Were  it  not  for  the  children's  prayer. 

"Your  thanks  belong  to  the  children  only; 

To  them  alone  your  life  you  owe. 
Now  listen,  while  I  relate  to  you  briefly 

How  it  came  to  happen,  and  go. 


MICKIEWICZ.  221 

"  I  and  my  comrades  had  long  heard  rumors 

Of  a  merchant  coming  this  way; 
And  here  in  the  woods  that  skirt  the  pillar 

We  were  lying  in  wait  to-day. 

"And  lying  in  wait  behind  the  bushes, 

The  children  at  prayer  I  heard. 
Though  I  listened  at  first  with  laugh  derisive, 

Soon  to  pity  my  heart  was  stirred. 

"  I  listened,  and  thoughts  of  my  home  came  to  me ; 

From  its  purpose  my  heart  was  won. 
I  too  have  a  wife  who  awaits  my  coming, 

And  with  her  is  my  little  son. 

"  Merchant,  depart  —  to  the  woods  I  hasten  — 

And  children,  come  sometimes  here, 
And  kneeling  together  beside  this  pillar 

Give  me  a  prayer  and  a  tear!  " 


222       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

CHILDE   HAROLD'S   FAREWELL   TO   HIS   NATIVE 
LAND. 

(FROM  LORD  BYRON.) 


Adieu,  adieu!  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight: 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  land  —  good  night! 

n. 

A  few  short  hours  and  he  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall: 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 


Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page, 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billows'  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong; 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along. 


MICKIEWICZ.  223 

POZEGNANJE   CHILDE   HAROLDA. 

(Z   LORDA   BYRONA.) 

TJomaczyi  ADAM  MICKIEWICZ.* 


Bywaj  mi  zdrowy,  kraju  kochany! 

Juz  w  mglistej  nikniesz  pomroce; 
Swisn^ly  wiatry,  szumj%  balwany 

I  morskie  ptactwo  swiegoce. 
Dalej  za  sloncem  gdzie  jasn^  glow£ 

W  zachodnie  pogr^za  piany  — 
Tym  czasem  slonce  bywaj  mi  zdrowe 

Bywaj  zdrow  kraju  kochany! 

ii. 

Za  kilka  godzin  rozane  zorze 

Promienmi  blySnie  jasnemi: 
Obacz^  niebo,  obacz^  morze 

Lecz  niezobacz^  mej  ziemi. 
Zamek,  na  kt6rym  brzmialo  wesele, 

Wieczna  zaioba  pokryje; 
Na  waiach  dzikie  poroSnie  ziele 

U  wrot  pies  wierny  zawyje. 


Pojdz  tu  moj  paziu-paziu  m6j  mily, 

Co  znacz%  te  Izy  i  zale? 
Czyli  ci£  wichrow  zd^sane  szaiy, 

Czy  morskie  l^kaj^  fale? 
Rozwesel  oko,  rozjasnij  czolo! 

W  dobrym  okr^cie,  w  pogod^  — 
Lotny  nasz  sokol  nie  tak  wesolo 

lak  my  polecim  przez  wod§. 

*  Translated  by  Adam  Mickiewicz. 


224       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

IV. 

"Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind; 
Yet  marvel  not,  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind; 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friends  save  these  alone, 

But  thee  —  and  One  above. 

v. 

"  My  father  bless'd  me  fervently, 

Yet  did  not  much  complain; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  again." 
Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad, 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye; 
*    If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry. 

i 

VI. 

Come  hither,  hither,  my  stanch  yeoman, 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale? 
"  Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life? 

Sir  Childe,  I'm  not  so  weak; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 

VII. 

"  My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall, 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 
And  when  they  on  their  father  call, 

What  answer  shall  she  make?" — 


MICKIEWICZ.  225 

IV. 

"  Niech  fala  szumi,  niech  wicher  ghiszy, 

Niedbam  pogoda  czy  slota: 
Te  Izy  wyciska  z  gl^bi  mej  duszy 

Nie  bojazn  ale  t^sknota. 
Bo  tarn  moj  stary  ojciec  zostanie, 

Tarn  matka  zostanie  droga, 
Tarn  wszyscy  moi  procz  ciebie,  panic 

Procz  ciebie  tylko  i  Boga. 

v. 

Ojciec  spokojnie  mi^  blogosiawii, 

Nie  placze  ani  narzeka; 
Lecz  matka  ktor^m  we  Izach  zostawil, 

Z  jak^z  t^sknot^.  naz  czeka?" 
DoSd,  dosd,  moj  paziu !  te  Izy  dziecinne 

Zrenicy  twojej  przystoj^; 
Gdybym  mial  rownie  serce  niewinne, 

Widzialby^  we  Izach  i  moj%. 

VI. 

Pojd^  tu  moj  giermku,  giermku- m6j  miody! 

.  Ska/1  ci  ta  blado^d  na  twarzy? 
Czy  rozhukanej  l^kasz  si^  wody, 

Czyli  francuzkich  korsarzy? 
"  0  nie  Haroldzie !  niedbam  o  zycie, 

Niedbam  o  losow  igrzyska: 
Alem  zostawii  zon£  i  dzieci^ 

To  mi  Izy  z  oczu  wyciska. 

VII. 

Zona  na  koncu  twojego  siota, 

W  zielonej  mieszka  d^browie; 
Gdy  dzieci^  z  placzem  ojca  zawola 

Cof  mu  nieszcz^sna  odpowie?" 
15 


226       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 
Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay; 

But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 
Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 

VIII. 

For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Of  wife  or  paramour? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perils  gathering  near; 
My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leave 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 
» 

IX. 

And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea; 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger's  hands; 
But  long  ere  I  come  back  again 

He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 
i 

x. 

With  thee,  my  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to, 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark  blue  waves! 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts  and  ye  caves! 

My  native  land  —  good  night! 


MICKIEWICZ.  227 

Do£d,  doSd  moj  giermku !  siuszna  twa  zalosd ; 

la  chod  tej  ganid  niernog^, 
Mniejsz%  mam  czuloSd,  czy  wi^ksz^.  staioSd: 

Smiej^c  si§  puszczam  si£  w  drog£! 


VIII. 


Kochanki,  zony  placz  mi§  niewzruszy  — 

Bo  nim  zabJy£nie    poranek, 
Z  bl^kitnycb  oczu  te  Jzy  osuszy 

Nowy  m%z,  nowy  kochanek  — 
Niezal  mi  ziemi  gdziem  mlodo^d  strawil, 

Nie  straszne  podroze  wodne; 
Zaluj^  tylko  zem  niezostawil 

Nic  coby  bylo  iez  godne. 


Teraz  po  swiecie  bl%dz^  szerokim, 

I  p§dz§  zycie  tulacze; 
Czegoz  mam  pJakad  zakim  i  pokira 

Kiedy  nikt  pomnie  nie  pJacze? — 
Pies  cbyba  tylko  zawyje  z  rana, 

Nim  obc%  karmiony  r^k^., 
Kiedy S  swojego  dawnego  pana 

Wsciekl^  powita  paszcz^k%. 

x. 

luz  okr^t  piersia^  kraje  gf^bin^, 

I  zagle  na  wiatr  rozwin^l; 
Niedbam  ku  jakim  brzegom  poplyn^ 

Bylebym  nazad  nieplyn^l, 
Gdy  mnie  twe  jasne  znudz^  krysztaly, 

Ogromna  modra  plasczyzno, 
Powitam  lasy,  pustynie,  skaly  — 

Bg.dz"  zdrowa  luba  Ojczyzno! 


228       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


BRODZDfeKI. 

CASIMIR  BRODZINSKI  is  one  of  the  poets  who  appeared 
on  the  stage  at  the  outset  of  this  period.  He  cast  his 
searching  eye  upon  the  just  expiring  century  and  felt 
in  his  heart  the  voice  calling  for  a  new  state  of  things. 
His  elaborate  ideas,  combined  with  deep  reflections, 
he  transferred  into  a  charming  world  of  poesy.  He 
argued  the  whole  thing  out,  and  gave  his  feelings  a 
tangible  and  poetic  form.  His  talent  was  not  of  the 
flashy  kind,  but  rather  retiring  and  modest,  resembling 
the  light  of  the  morning  star  casting  upon  the  world  its 
soft,  sad,  and  longing  rays;  but  this  light  was  not  seen 
nor  understood  by  all;  he  shared  the  common  lot  of  all 
creative  minds,  and  of  those  who  wished  to  implant  new 
ideas  into  the  popular  heart.  The  public  admired  him; 
men  of  letters  appreciated  him  for  his  artistic  skill; 
it  was  acknowledged  that  his  dissertations  were  full  of 
rendition;  but  the  masses  were  deaf  to  Brodzinski's 
voice,  —  it  failed  to  make  any  impression  on  their 
minds.  In  a  short  time  he  was  as  it  were  completely 
forsaken  by  them,  and  he  became  as  a  target  to  be  fired 
upon  by  the  youth  of  Poland.  A  mistaken  and  ill- 
advised  impression  was  spread  that  in  his  works  were 
concealed  dangerous  elements.  Thrust  aside,  found 
fault  with,  he  was  almost  forgotten.  But  the  revolu- 
tion of  1830  lifted  him  up  at  once.  Heaven  granted 
him  a  gift  of  looking  far  into  the  future.  Brodzifiski's 
poetic  genius  did  not  lift  him  into  the  empyrean  spheres; 
it  did  not  carry  him  beyond  the  limits  of  the  occasion; 
but  every  one  can  see  that  his  feelings  are  not  con- 
strained; that  honesty  of  purpose  and  a  yearning  feeling 


BRODZINSKI.  229 

knocks  gently  at  the  heart  of  others.  His  prepon- 
derant ability  was  in  his  inquiring  mind,  which  carefully 
reveals  the  unknown  road,  working  cautiously  around, 
consulting  his  own  judgment,  and  profiting  by  the 
experience  of  others.  Being  well  acquainted  with 
German  literature,  he  preferred  to  look  there  for 
examples  to  cultivate  his  own  talent;  but  above  all, 
while  fathoming  the  popular  songs  and  the  character- 
istics of  the  Slavonian  peoples  to  correctly  delineate 
the  national  spirit  of  Slavonian  poetry  seemed  to  be 
his  chief  aim.  But  this  innovation  caused  in  those  days 
great  opposition,  especially  among  the  votaries  of 
Laharpe  and  Boileau,  who  considered  themselves  as 
infallible  judges  of  every  unfolding  talent.  Brod- 
zinski  suifered  patiently  all  sorts  of  personal  taunts, 
and  while  forgetting  himself  he  did  not  cease  defending 
the  cause.  He  published  a  highly  interesting  disser- 
tation on  Classicism  and  Romanticism,  which  was 
printed  at  Warsaw.  This  dissertation  proved  to  be 
a  species  of  watch-word  for  a  subsequent  stormy  literary 
war,  which  gave  the  contending  parties  two  separate 
names,  to  wit:  Classicists  and  Romanticists.  Brod- 
zinski  very  modestly  put  himself  on  the  neutral 
ground,  and  would  not  participate  in  this  polemic 
struggle;  but  by  occasional  publication  of  his  poetical 
compositions  in  the  "  Review,'1  and  finally  by  pub- 
lishing them  in  a  volume  (1821-2),  subdued  all 
prejudiced  minds,  and  favorably  inclined  them  toward 
his  innovations  in  the  literature  of  his  country,  at  the 
same  time  opening  a  way  to  a  complete  reform,  not 
only  in  the  art  of  writing  itself,  but  also  in  the  concep- 
tions necessary  to  the  innovation.  These  innovations 
and  conceptions  were  taken  up  by  another  genius,  and 
very  soon  after  put  into  practice. 


230       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Brodzinski's  poetical  compositions  breathed  like  the 
gentle  breezes  of  the  wind,  which  seemed  to  send  into 
the  popular  heart  a  new  life;  it  was  a  genuine  national 
breath,  awakening  in  poetry  pure  native  feeling  and 
turning  attention  to  the  land  of  our  birth  —  its  inher- 
ent qualities  and  its  beauties;  he  chose  for  his  images 
simple  and  more  accessible  objects,  —  rural  life  and 
scenery,  and  beautifully  painted  their  simplicity,  their 
innocence  and  charms. 

Thus  is  his  "Wieslaw  "  planned.  It  is  like  the  first 
flowers  in  the  spring,  which  are  not  the  prettiest  in 
outward  appearance,  —  but  then  one  of  these  is  the 
violet,  and  who  plucked  the  first  violet  in  our  litera- 
ture was  the  first  to  welcome  the  spiritual  spring  of  the 
nation.  "Wieslaw  "  is  the  most  beautiful  pastoral, —  the 
most  charming  rural  epopee, —  and  after  its  publication 
it  created  a  sensation  such  as  no  other  poem  ever  created 
before.  The  youth  of  the  country  could  repeat  it  by 
heart,  and  even  to  this  day  the  poem  is  known  and 
loved  by  all  classes.  It  was  welcomed  at  its  first  appear- 
ance as  a  harbinger  of  a  bright  star  of  future  poetry 
which  was  to  rise  over  the  whole  Polish  nation.  This 
"Wieslaw,"  singing  forth  with  the  accompaniment  of 
a  country  fiddler,  the  Cracovian  dancers,  the  bride-men, 
the  para-nymphs,  came  out  with  charms  unknown 
before.  If  Brodziftski  had  not  written  anything  else 
but  that,  it  alone  would  have  contributed  greatly  to  the 
Polish  literature,  and  would  have  placed  him  in  the 
first  ranks  of  Polish  poets.  He  infused  into  his  poetry 
all  the  gentleness  of  his  nature,  his  feeling,  and  his 
sincerity. 

Brodzifiski  was  born  on  the  8th  of  March,  1791,  in 
Galicia.  In  consequence  of  the  early  death  of  his 
mother,  and  neglected  by  his  stepmother,  he  grew  up 


BRODZINSKL  231 

amidst  rural  people  and  rural  scenes.  Later  he  was 
sent  to  school  at  Lipnice.  He  finished  the  gymnasium 
at  Tarnow,  from  where  he  ran  away  with  his  brother 
Andrew,  and  enlisted  in  the  artillery  in  1809.  He 
served  in  the  campaign  of  1812,  and  the  year  after 
was  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Leipsic,  and  finally 
taken  prisoner  by  the  Prussians.  In  1814  he  was 
released,  and  returning  to  "Warsaw  he  left  the  military 
service,  and  gave  himself  up  to  learning.  At  that  time 
(1818-)  he  wrote  his  dissertation  "Of  Classicism  and 
Romanticism,"  which  called  out,  as  before  mentioned, 
the  celebrated  literary  war.  Laboring  on  the  commit- 
tee of  the  department  of  the  interior  he,  at  the  same 
time,  gave  private  lessons  in  Polish  literature.  In 
1821  he  taught  at  the  Lyceum,  and  the  succeeding  year 
was  called  to  d,  professorship  at  the  University  of  War- 
saw. His  failing  health  compelled  him  to  seek  milder 
climes,  and  in  1826  he  left  for  Italy,  visiting  Switzer- 
land and  France.  Returning  again  to  his  country  he 
continued  in  his  usual  labors  till  1829.  In  the  follow- 
ing year  he  published  "The  Latin  Elegies"  of  John 
Kochanowski.  Falling  sick  again  he  went  to  the  Bo- 
hemian waters,  and  died  at  Dresden  on  the  10th  day  of 
October,  1835. 

The  first  collection  of  his  poems,  in  two  volumes, 
was  published  at  Warsaw,  1821.  Afterward  "The 
Miscellaneous  Writings,"  containing  critical  and  ses- 
thetical  dissertations  was  also  published  at  Warsaw, 
1830.  A  complete  edition  of  his  works  was  published 
in  ten  volumes  at  Wilno,  1842-4.  Besides  that  the 
translation  of  the  tragedy  of  "Raynouard,"  Warsaw, 
1819;  "Latin  Elegies,"  Warsaw,  1830;  "Of  Litera- 
tur"e,"  in  Turowski's  Library,  at  Sanok,  1856. 


232  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF   POLAND. 

THE   FATHER  AND   HIS   SON. 

My  son,  give  me  my  spade  and  plow  — 

To  labor  is  our  lot, 
And  though  a  lonely  being  now, 

I'll  guard  our  little  cot. 

Within  the  valley  of  thy  birth 

Lies  armor  we  will  raise; 
'Tis  hid  within  our  native  earth, 

Awaiting  better  days. 

And  when  I  see  thee  draw  once  more 
Thy  father's  conquering  sword, 

I'll  dream  our  night  of  slavery  is  o'er, 
And  freedom  is  restored. 

And  oh,  my  son,  weep  not  for  me; 

These  aged  hands  can  toil 
For  our  support — but  'tis  for  thee 

To  guard  our  native  soil. 

My  hope  on  God  and  thee  depends, 

And  God  will  me  reward; 
My  corn  will  grow  to  feed  the  friends 

Whose  swords  our  freedom  guard. 

See  where  yon  trees  their  branches  wave, 
And  shroud  the  church  in  gloom, 

There,  sooner  than  become  a  slave, 
Thy  sire  will  find  a  tomb. 

And  if  returned  from  foes  o'ercome, 
To  me  be  tear-drops  given; 

If  not,  thy  arms  must  share  my  tomb, 
And  seek  thy  sire  in  heaven. 


BRODZINSKI.  233 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

Young  Man.  Old  man,  tell  me  where  to  get  bread. 
Old  Man.        In  early  morning  leave  your  bed, 

And  as  the  way  is  long  and  steep, 

'Tis  best  the  ploughshare's  path  to  keep. 

It  will  be  somewhat  wearisome, 

But  thereby  health  and  peace  will  come. 
Young  Man.  Where  are  your  recreations  here? 
Old  Man.        No  road  through  six  days  brings  them  near; 

Through  six  days  to  your  work  attend ; 

To  make  a  home  your  mind  must  bend, 

And  boldly  then  when  earned  your  pelf 

On  Sunday  you  enjoy  yourself. 

Young  Man.  Where  are  your  schools  and  teachers  here? 
Old  Man.        Schools  and  wise  teachers  both  are  near; 

But  you'll  lose  time  to  go  and  ask, — 

Be  giddy-headed  with  the  task. 

But  for  beginners,  full  of  worth, 

Are  charts  of  sky  and  charts  of  earth; 

And  there  is,  too,  Dame  Nature's  book, 

That  children  learn  from  as  they  look. 

People  there  are  who  lose  or  gain, 

Whose  hearts  are  full  of  joy  or  pain; 

And  they  each  other  teach  in  turn,     . 

With  pluck  and  spirit  go  and  learn. 

Search  without  idleness;  refrain 

From  asking  oft.     The  way  is  plain. 
Young  Man.  Tell  me  where  can  I  find  a  friend . 
Old  Man.        That  great  boon  none  but  Fate  can  send ; 

With  golden  nets  he  is  not  caught, 

With  skill  nor  flattery  is  bought. 

He  who  has  found,  indeed,  a  friend. 

Whose  heart  with  his  through  life  may  blend, 

Blessed  is  he  beyond  compare ! 

For  as  the  body  needs  the  air 


234       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

E'en  so  the  true  heart  needs  a  friend, — 
He  who  will  a  few  words  extend, 
If  they  be  kindly  and  sincere, 
Though  why,  may  not  to  you  appear. 
Time  passes,  and  day  follows  day, 
Year  after  year  will  slip  away; 
But  still  your  heart  will  yearn  for  him, 
He  reigns  o'er  you  in  silence  dim. 
Will  all  your  hidden  troubles  guess 
In  fancied  luck  or  hopelessness. 
Your  friend  rejoices  or  he  grieves, 
If  your  devotion  he  receives. 
To  state  a  truth  there  consequent 
To  your  voice  let  your  heart  be  lent, 
Exclaiming:  I  a  friend  have  found. 

Young  Man.  Tell  me  where  pleasure  does  abound? 

Old  Man.        'Tis  long  since  from  it  I  have  heard, 
Others  can  tell  you  scarce  a  word. 
Something  of  it  I  knew  in  youth, 
Its  mother  was  good  health  and  truth. 
Innocence  it  had  for  a  wife, 
Possessed  goods  many  of  this  life; 
Except  with  children  it  is  found 
Tis  vanished  now  from  sight  and  sound. 

Young  Man.  Pray  tell  me  where's  Virtue  now. 

Old  Man.       It's  lying  ill  and  very  low. 

It  prays  for  all  most  fervently, 
Its  own  reward  it  used  to  be, 
Quietly  breathing  its  pure  breath, 
But  now  it  weeps  as  if  for  death, 
And  terrible  is  its  distress! 

Young  Man.  Where  then  can  I  find  happiness? 

Old  Man.        In  this  direction  it  lies  not, 

By  every  one  the  way  is  sought, 
But  ah!  no  one  knows  happiness, 
And  so,  I  think,  all  will  confess; 


BRODZINSKI.  235 

In  search  of  it  they  still  must  roam. 
You  have  left  it  in  your  sire's  home; 
Only  in  God  you'll  find  it  now, 
Speak  gently — teach  your  heart  to  bow. 
Seek  peace  in  many  a  noble  task, 
And  last  of  all  your  conscience  ask, 
And  that  will  the  whole  story  tell. 

Young  Man.  Where  does  Faith  about  here  dwell  ? 

Old  Man.        If  from  your  mother  you  learned  not 
By  children  you  can  best  be  taught. 
The  straightest  path  to  it  would  be, — 
Not  to  inquire  of  men  you  see, 
Who  happy  seem,  nor  those  world-wise, 
Seek  if  in  love  for  all  it  lies 
In  loving  deeds  and  kindly  thought, 
And  when  all  else  has  come  to  naught 
It  will,  when  troubles  fast  succeed, 
Itself  into  your  succor  speed, 
And  to  its  home  in  safety  lead. 

SLANDER. 

Unlucky  he  who  stands  in  slander's  power ! 
Though  great, — for  worms  a  lion  may  devour. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

Like  the  morning  sunbeam's  shade, 
Friendship  with  the  evil  made 
Lessens  every  hour  with  time; 
As  the  shade  of  evening  lengthens 
Friendship  with  the  virtuous  strengthens, 
Till  the  sun  sinks  down  sublime. 


236       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


WIESfcAW.* 


Old  Stanislaw  came  from  his  chamber-door, 

His  wife  upon  his  arm, —  two  bags  he  bore; 

Whence  thrice  a  hundred  florins  he  told  o'er, 

And  said,  "  Take  these,  my  Wiestaw,  and  depart; 

And  bring  a  pair  of  steeds  from  Cracow's  mart; — 

A  well-matched  pair. — My  son  was  slain  in  fight, 

And  grief  and  grievous  age  o'erpower  me  quite: 

I've  none  to  trust  but  thee,  the  prop,  the  stay 

Of  my  old  house.     When  I  have  pass'd  away 

Be  thou  its  head; — and  if  (Heaven  grant  the  prayer!) 

My  daughter  e'er  should  win  thy  love,  thy  care, — 

Twelve  years  —  rare  beauty — thou  mayst  wait; — my  tongue 

Must  not  betray  my  heart; — but  thou  art  young." 

"Yes!  yes!"  cried  Bronislawa,  "'tis  for  thee 

I  watch  and  train  the  maiden  tenderly." 

(She  smoothed  Bronika's  cheeks  while  this  she  said; 

And  deeply  blushed  the  young  and  simple  maid.) 

"  I  have  no  sweeter  thoughts  for  her; — and  this 

Were  the  full  spring-tide  of  a  mother's  bliss; 

0 !  I  was  twice  a  mother.     God  above ! 

Can  I  weep  out  the  memory  of  her  love? 

The  fifth  fruit  scarce  had  blossom'd; — she  was  reft, 

And  not  a  solitary  vestige  left. 

Twelve  wintry  winds  have  stripped  the  forest  tree, 

And  still  her  visions  haunt  that  memory. 

When  war  had  ravaged  Poland, —  when  its  brands 

Fired  our  low  cots,  and  razed  our  smiling  lands, — 

When  even  the  forests  perish'd  in  the  blaze, 

And  terror  like  a  whirlwind  met  the  gaze, 

As  if  all  heaven  were  frowning; — overturn'd 

*  Pronounced  Vieslav. 


BRODZHVTSKI,  237 

Our  houses;  rooted  up,  and  tore,  and  burn'd 

Our  sheltering  woods; — 'twas  as  if  judgment-day 

Had  gather'd  all  its  terrors  o'er  our  way. 

Midst  sobs  and  sighs  and  shrieks  and  wailings  loud, 

Through  the  wild  tempest  of  the  fiery  cloud, 

Our  peasants  rush'd  to  save  us;  while  the  foe 

Fed  upon  plunder,  scattering  fear  and  woe. 

Our  father's  cottage  in  the  smoke-clouds  fell, — 

And  that  beloved  child, —  0  horrible! 

That  sweet,  soft  maiden  disappear'd; — no  trace 

Was  left; — 'twas  all  a  bare  and  blazing  place: — 

I  sought  her  through  the  villages  and  woods: 

There  was  no  voice  in  all  their  solitudes. 

No!  she  was  lost  forever!  as  a  stone 

Into  th'  unfathom'd  trackless  ocean  thrown; 

And  I  found  nought  but  silence.     Year  by  year 

The  harvest  maidens  wreath'd  with  flowers  appear, — 

But  she  appears  not; — Oh!  she  is  not  there. 

Heaven's  will  shall  be  Heaven's  praise. —  I  fix'd  on  thee, 

My  son,  her  representative  to  be. 

Thou  wert  an  orphan,  and  of  old  'twas  said, 

That  he  who  housed  a  homeless  orphan's  head 

Should  ne'er  want  comfort; — and  perchance  my  child 

May  yet  have  found  a  home, —  and  'neath  the  mild 

And  holy  smile  of  a  maternal  eye 

May  dwell  with  other  children  joyously. 

So  have  I  train'd  thee, —  so  have  I  fulfill'd 

A  mother's  duties, —  and  my  grief  was  still'd 

With  thoughts  that  mercy  should  for  mercy  pay; 

For  Heaven's  rewards  flit  o'er  our  earthly  way 

In  strange  and  wandering  light.     Perchance  the  mound 

Lies  on  her  head  o'er  the  dark  grave  profound, 

While  her  freed  spirit  in  the  realms  of  rest 

Sits  dove-like  on  the  Heavenly  Mother's*  breast; 

*  The  Virgin  Mary. 


238  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

And  thence  by  prayers  and  tears  on  our  abode 

Sends  down  the  smiles  of  angels  and  of  God." 

She  could  no  more; — her  cheeks  were  drench'd  in  tears, — 

Tears, —  the  prompt  eloquence  of  hopes  and  fears; 

Her  daughter's  heart  seem'd  bursting.     Tears  deny 

Their  soothing  influence  to  man's  sterner  eye. 

So  Stanislaw,  whose  soul  was  full  as  hers, 

Cried,  "  God  in  heaven  directs  weak  man's  affairs, — 

God,  whose  all-penetrating  sight  can  rend 

The  curtains  of  all  time  and  space ; —  a  friend 

And  ever-present  Father.     None  too  mean 

For  his  regards; — he  rules  o'er  all  unseen. 

Let  grief  give  way  to  pious  confidence ! 

Provide  for  Wieslaw  now,  and  speed  him  hence, 

And  give  him  counsel  and  thy  blessing; — youth 

Is  ever  hasty.     Boy !  some  pledge  of  truth 

Thou'lt  bring  to  thy  betroth'd." — In  reverence  meet 

He  bow'd,  and  then  embraced  the  old  man's  feet; 

Then  pass'd  the  threshold,  grateful  to  high  Heaven, 

Who  to  the  orphan  such  kind  friends  had  given. 

n. 

Sweet  evening  with  its  twilight  bathed  the  earth, 
And  lo!  the  gladdening  sounds  of  village  mirth 
Fell  upon  Wieslaw's  ear,  as  home  he  rode 
Upon  his  new-bought  steeds, —  the  shouts  were  loud, 
And  gay  the  music; — swift  the  horses  speed: 
He  saw  the  bride-maids  sporting  in  the  mead, 
All  crown'd  with  myrtle  garlands.     Youths  around 
Stamp'd  their  steel  heels  upon  the  echoing  ground,* 
Then  sprung  to  greet  the  stranger.     First  of  all 
The  Starost^  spoke:  "  Tis  well  to  claim,  and  call 
A  stranger,  friend:  from  Proszow  welcome  thou; 

*To  stamp  with  the  feet  is  the  accompaniment  of  the  Cracowiak 
dance. 

f-  The  head  of  the  wedding  festival. 


BRODZINSKI.  239 

Despise  not  the  kind  thoughts  that  hail  thee  now. 

Come,  share  our  joys, —  the  joys  which  time  and  toil, 

And  God's  good  blessing,  and  our  flowery  soil 

Confer; — and  thou  Cracovia's  maids  shalt  see, 

Their  dances,  dresses,  and  festivity. 

Come,  join  their  sports;  though  thou  art  tired,  perchance 

Thy  weariness  may  fly  at  beauty's  glance, 

For  thou  art  young."     The  fair  Halina, —  fair 

As  morning, —  she  the  queen,  the  day-star  there, 

Approach'd; — she  blush'd,  she  blush'd,  but  nearer  drew, 

And  proffer'd  cakes  and  fruits  of  varied  hue 

From  her  own  basket: — "  Stranger,  deign  to  share 

Our  fruits,  our  bread,  our  unpretending  fare." 

The  stranger's  vivid  eye  toward  her  turn'd, 

And  with  a  magic  smiling  brightness  burn'd ; 

Aye!  from  that  very  moment  eye  and  soul 

Were  spell-bound  by  that  simple  maid's  control, 

And  joyous  sped  he  to  the  dance.     The  band 

Of  youth,  with  wine-fill'd  goblets  in  their  hand, 

Bid  him  a  welcome;  and  the  Starost's  word 

Thus  order'd  :  — "  Let  precedence  be  conferr'd 

Upon  the  stranger.     Let  him  choose  the  song; 

Be  his  to  lead  the  mazy  dance  along. 

Let  him  select  a  maiden, —  courtesy 

Must  on  the  stranger  wait, —  and  this  is  he 

Wieslaw  had  seized  her  hand  whose  eye  had  shed 

On  him  a  heavenly  influence,  and  he  led 

Halina  forth, —  a  long  and  laughing  train 

Of  youths  and  maidens  to  the  music's  strain 

Beat  their  responsive  feet, —  and  heel  on  heel 

Like  flitting  shadows  on  the  water,  steal. 

His  hands  were  on  his  belted  girdle,  while 
He  gaily  danced  in  that  bright  maiden's  smile: 
Into  the  vial  silver  coins  he  threw, 
And  bowing  to  the  seated  sires,  anew 


240       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Struck  with  his  foot  the  ground,  and  lower'd  his  head 
And  thus  pour'd  forth  his  music  to  the  maid  : 

"  Beautiful  damsel !    often  I 
Have  seen  what  seem'd  almost  divine, 
But  never  brightness  like  thine  eye, 
But  never  charms,  sweet  maid!  like  thine. 

"  Look  on  my  face,  and  see,  and  see, 
As  my  warm  heart  to  Heaven  is  known, 
How  that  fond  heart  would  spring  to  thee, 
And  blend  its  passions  with  thine  own." 

Again  he  led  the  maiden  forth,  and  danced 
Like  a  young  god  by  joy  and  love  entranced; 
Again  the  gladdening  peals  of  music  rang, 
Again  he  stopp'd,  and  bow'd,  and  sweetly  sang  : 

"0!  had  I  known  thee  in  the  plain 
Where  Proszow  rears  his  forest  shades, 
I  should  have  been  most  blest  of  men, 
Thou  happiest  of  Cracovian  maids. 

"  The  blood  that  flows  within  our  veins 
Can  all  our  fond  desires  enthrall: 
Man  plants  and  waters,  toils  and  pains, 
But  God  in  Heaven  disposes  all." 

With  dancing  step  before  the  youth  she  flew, 
With  joyous  ecstasy  his  steps  pursue. 
Again  he  takes  her  hand,  and  smiles; —  again 
His  thrilling  lips  resume  the  raptured  strain  :  — 

"  Ofly  not,  fly  not,  maid  divine! 
My  life,  my  chosen  one,  art  thou: 
My  heart  shall  be  thine  own  bright  shrine, 
And  never  lose  thine  image  now. 


BRODZINSKI.  241 

"  So  in  the  solitary  wood 
The  little  warbler  finds  its  rest; 
And  consecrates  its  solitude, 
And  makes  its  own,  its  homely  nest." 

Now  in  his  turn  before  the  maid  he  flies, 
And  she  to  track  his  footstep  gaily  hies: 
He  stops,  and  laughs ; —  again  his  lips  repeat 
Words  of  light  eloquence  to  music  sweet  :  — 

"  Gospodar* !  I  have  dearly  bought 
My  steeds ; —  my  money  all  away ; — 
Perplex'd  and  pain'd  my  rambling  thought 
And  my  poor  heart  is  led  astray. 

"  But  wake,  0  wake  the  song !  —  despair 
And  darkness  gather  o'er  my  mind: 
I  seek  my  home ; —  my  body  there 
I  drag, —  my  soul  remains  behind." 

She  stretch'd  her  hand ; —  again  he  sings, —  the  throng 

Of  youth  hangs  raptured  on  his  ardent  song. 

Strike  up,  musicians ! — 'Twas  too  late ;  for  they 

Had  sunk  to  rest  beneath  sleep's  lulling  sway. 

And  now  Halina  fled; — her  blush  to  hide 

She  sought  the  village  matrons'  sheltering  side. 

And  Wieslaw  to  the  Starost  and  to  these 

Made  many  a  bow,  and  utter'd  courtesies; 

And  many  a  whisper  fell;  and  late  and  long 

He  linger'd  midst  the  hospitable  throng; 

Linger'd  until  the  bride-day  whitening  fell 

In  twilight  on  the  hills, — then  said  farewell ! 

His  ears  were  full  of  music  and  of  mirth, 

His  heart  seem'd  big  with  thoughts,  yet  void  with  dearth; 

One  thought  in  varied  imagery  was  there, 

One  all- possessing  thought, —  the  thought  of  her. 

*  Landlord. 
16 


242  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

III. 

Wiesiaw  o'er  the  field,  the  waste,  the  wood, 

Sped  swiftly;  yet  his  bosom's  solitude 

And  his  love-grief  were  with  him  :  —  for  when  love 

Is  seated  in  the  heart  no  thoughts  can  move, 

No  reason  drive  it  thence.     And  now  should  he 

Divulge  his  love,  or  fan  it  secretly? 

He  would  tell  all  to  Stanislaw.     He  rode 

To  the  court-yard,  and  to  his  loved  abode 

Was  warmly  welcomed  by  th'  expectant  crowd; 

Sire,  mother,  daughter, —  some  with  voices  loud, 

And  some  with  silent  smiles.     They  smooth'd  his  horse 

And  tied  him  to  the  hedge ;  and  praised  of  course 

His  bargains  and  his  quick  return.     The  steeds 

Old  Stanislaw  with  looks  approving  leads 

To  their  appointed  stall; — but  first  his  care 

Bids  Bronislawa  homely  feast  prepare. 

And  Wiesiaw  reach'd  the  cot,  and  seated  him 

Pensively.  "  Art  thou  ill? — thine  eyes  are  dim!  " 

Inquired  the  anxious  .women.     No  word  pas&'d 

His  lips:  he  stretch  M  his  hand,  and  gave  at  last 

A  present  to  Bronika: — still  he  kept 

Silence.     Just  then  a  curious  neighbor  stept 

Over  the  thi'eshold, — it  was  John,  the  seer 

Of  all  the  village,  and  though  learned — dear: 

Prudent  in  council  he;  yet  free  and  gay, 

He  sway'd  the  peasants,  but  with  gentlest  sway: 

Honest  and  wise  in  thought, — in  language  wise. 

Yet  why  does  gloom  hang  thick  on  Wieslaw's  eye«? 

The  father  came,  and  all  were  seated  round 

Their  sober  meal; — John's  jests  and  jokes  abound. 

Yet  Bronislawa  could  only  dream  and  guess 

What  Wiesiaw's  silence  meant.  "  0  now  confess, 

Confess  what  clouds  thy  heart  and  stills  thy  tongue, 

For  gloom  and  silence  ill  become  the  young; 


BRODZLNSKL  243 

Thou'rt  brooding  on  some  grief."  The  words  pierced  thro' 
His  heart; — his  cheeks  were  stain'd  with  roseate  hue; 

O'erpower'd  he  fell  at  Bronislawa's  feet. 
"  Yes!  I  will  speak, —  say  all.     Indeed  'tis  meet 
To  veil  no  thoughts  from  aged  friends;  for  they 
May  guide  the  wandering  youth  that  walks  astray, 
With  words  of  wisdom.     Better  I  had  ne'er 
Left  this  kind  home,  your  kindness  and  your  care. 
Content  I  walk'd  behind  your  cheerful  plow, 
And  never  knew  the  war  of  grief —  till  now. 
But  man  can  only  travel  in  the  road, 
Or  smooth  or  rough,  which  is  mark'd  out  by  God. 
His  oracles  are  swift  as  rays  of  light, — 
Unseen  as  spirit, —  unopposed  in  might, — 
I  pass'd  a  village,  where  a  maiden  stole 
My  heart,  and  charm'd  my  senses  and  my  soul, 
And  holds  them  now.     My  parents  rest  in  heaven; 
You  to  the  orphan  a  kind  home  have  given  — 
A  shelter  to  the  orphan's  misery: 
Yes !  you  unbarr'd  your  friendly  gates  to  me ;  — 
Repent  not  now  your  kindness  and  your  love. 
Ye  taught  me  toil,  and  fear  of  God  above; 
And  gave  your  only  daughter,  a  wreath'd  *  bride 
To  hang  with  fondness  on  the  orphan's  side. 
Even  when  I  rock'd  her  in  her  cradle,  ye 
Have  often  said,  'That  babe  thy  wife  shall  be!' — 
And  am  I  then  ungrateful?     Is  my  heart, 
My  obdurate  heart,  of  stone,  that  thus  would  part, 
Your  hopes,  my  dreams?     Nay!  let  me,  let  me  speak, 
For  love  is  strong,  and  language  is  but  weak. 
Why  must  I  grieve  ye? — why  my  shame  declare? 
No  longer  can  I  claim  your  fostering  care; 
For  I  must  dwell  with  strangers.     Come  what  may, 
I  cannot  live  where  that  fair  maid's  away; — 

*  Wreath'd,  affianced.    A  wreath  is  synonymous  with  a  dower. 


244  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

I  hate  myself;  I'm  useless  to  mankind; — 

Give  me  your  blessing.     Let  me  leave  behind 

Eternal  gratitude.     Your  blessing  give; 

For  who  beneath  a  patron's  curse  could  live? 

Farewell!  and  God  shall  judge  us."     Tears  of  woe 

Good  Bronislawa's  aged  eyes  o'erflow. 

The  old  man  bends  his  head, —  but  not  t'  approve, — 

And  utters  these  sad  words  of  solemn  love : 

"  'Twas  on  thy  father's  death-bed  that  he  gave 

Thee  to  my  care, —  and  then  he  sought  his  grave; 

And  from  that  hour  I  loved  thee  tenderly: 

Yes!  nothing  was  more  dear  than  thou  to  me. 

Know'st  thou  old  age  is  on  me;  and  canst  thou 

Leave  me  to  struggle  with  its  miseries  now, 

And  rush  upon  life's  perils? — quit  the  cot 

Where  sorrow  and  unkindness  enter  not, — 

Quit  every  future  hope?  —  Oh,  if  thou  go, 

Thou  shalt  bear  with  thee  shame  and  tears  and  woe! 

Thine  is  a  dangerous  course: — I  cannot  say 

'God  bless  thee!'     Stay,  my  best-loved  Wieslaw,  stay!" 

All  wept,  except  the  village  seer.     His  head 

He  wisely  shook,  and  thus  he  gaily  said: 

"  How  can  the  old  man  understand  the  young? 

Freedom  is  in  their  heart,  and  on  their  tongue 

Sweet  change;  tempt  them  with  love,  with  riches'  cares, 

Still  they  look  further, —  for  the  world  is  theirs: 

For  them  restraint  is  weariness  and  woe; 

And  as  the  spring-bird  scours  the  meadows,  so 

Proud,  free  and  gay,  rejoicing  in  his  might, 

O'er  rivers,  woods,  and  cliffs  he  takes  his  flight, 

Until  attracted  by  some  gentle  strain 

He  seeks  the  green  and  leafy  woods  again, 

And  by  his  mate  reposes.     Such  the  laws 

Which  nature  round  the  star  of  youth-time  draws. 

In  vain  you  stop  his  course, —  and  why  should  he 

Be  check'd,  when  God  and  nature  made  him  free! 


BRODZINSKI.  245 

He  holds  no  influence  o'er  Bronika's  doom; 

'Tis  mutual  love  makes  happy  wedlock  bloom: 

She  is  a  lovely  floweret,  to  be  placed 

On  some  fair  stranger's  bosom.     Father,  haste 

And  give  thy  blessing  to  thy  son ; —  for  each 

Should  seize  the  bliss  that  grows  within  his  reach." 

To  whom  old  Stanislaw, — :'Not  so!  not  so! 

I  cannot  let  my  son,  my  Wieslaw,  go: 

Thou'rt  full  of  knowledge ;  but  thou  canst  not  know 

A  father's  fondness,  and  a  father's  woe, 

When  the  dear  object  of  his  grief,  his  cares, — 

With  whom  he  lived,  and  loved,  and  labor'd, —  tears 

His  heart  away,  and  leaves  a  dark  abode 

The  once  love-lighted  dwelling  where  he  trod; — 

Forgetting  all  —  all,  e'en  the  tears  they  pour'd 

In  solitude, — while  at  a  stranger's  board 

The  daughter  sits.     0  no!  I  long  had  dream'd 

Of  bliss  to  come, —  and  sweet  and  bright  it  seem'd 

To  think  her  mother,  when  death's  curtain  fell 

Upon  my  silent  grave,  in  peace  should  dwell 

In  her  own  cottage; — but  'twas  vain  to  build 

Such  visions ; —  Be  the  will  of  Heaven  fulfill'd ! 

Go  —  with  my  blessing,  Wieslaw  —  go:  let  John 

Escort  thee,  counsel  thee; — Heaven's  will  be  done! 

Go  to  thy  loved  one's  dwelling.     If  the  maid 

And  the  maid's  friends  consent  love's  wreaths  to  braid, 

Then  bring  her  hither ; — John  thy  guide  shall  be,* 

And  she  be  welcomed  when  betroth'd  to  thee." 

So  John  and  Wieslaw  left  their  home  at  length: 
And  WiesJaw,  sped  by  love  and  youthful  strength, 
Flew  o'er  the  mountains,  through  the  fields  and  dells, 

*  Among  the  peasantry  it  is  the  custom  in  Poland  for  the  young 
man  who  asks  a  maid  in  marriage  to  take  the  most  venerable  of  his 
friends  to  plead  for  him.  He  is  called  the  Swat.  The  ceremony  of 
betrothing  follows,  and  rings  are  pledged  in  exchange. 


246       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

And  reach'd  the  dwelling  where  the  maiden  dwells; 
While  thus  beneath  her  window,  where  they  stood, 
Their  strains  of  music  on  her  ear  intrude: 

"  The  beds  are  cover'd  with  flowerets  sweet, 
And  rue  and  rosemary  bloom  in  pride; 

A  garland  lies  in  the  window-seat. 
And  a  maid  walks  forth  to  be  a  bride. 

"A  youth  from  a  distant  land  will  come, 
And  soon  to  the  maiden's  parents  speak; 

The  daughter  will  pluck  the  flowers  that  bloom, 
And  swiftly  another  mother  seek. 

"  0  rosemary !  wear  thy  gems  of  blue, 

And  garland  once  more  the  maiden's  brow; 

And  wake  again,  thou  emerald  rue, 

For  none  shall  water  thy  springing  now. 

"  The  cottage  is  neat,  though  poor  it  be, 
The  blessing  of  God  beams  bright  on  care, 

The  magpie  cries  on  the  old  elm  tree, 

And  the  maid  in  her  morning  robes  is  there. 

"Awake,  and  open!  —  the  guests  draw  nigh, 

0  welcome  them  in  a  day  like  this; 
Receive  the  strangers  cordially, 

They  come  to  shed  and  to  share  in  bliss." 

The  mother  from  her  spindle  rose,  and  drew 
The  bolt, —  the  creaking  door  wide  open  flew; 
Old  John  and  youthful  Wieslaw  entered  then, — 
WiesJaw  of  giant  height  and  noble  mien, 
Whose  head  reach'd  e'en  the  ceiling.     Jadwicz  said, 
"  Welcome,  our  guests !     Sit  down  and  rest,  and  spread 
The  news  ye  bring."     Next  came  the  bright-eyed  maid, 
Blushing,  yet  bending  like  a  flower  that's  weigh'd 


BKODZINSKI.  247 

By  heavy  dews.     John  hail'd  her:  "  Maiden,  stay ! 
Those  rosy  cheeks  an  old  man's  toils  shall  pay." 
Then  she  blush'd  deeper,  and  from  WiesJaw  took 
His  traveling-basket,  and  his  traveling-crook 
From  the  good  sire; — she  drew  the  settle  near, 
And  bid  them  rest;  while  whispering  in  her  ear 
Jadwicz  gave  speedy  orders:  "  Light  the  hearth, 
Prepare  the  meal."     While  with  a  smile  of  mirth 
The  old  man  said,  "  I  would  not  now  transgress 
The  customs  of  our  fathers, —  I  confess 
I  love  old  usages ; —  so  with  your  leave, 
An  ye  will  lend  your  goblets,  and  receive 
A  draught  from  our  own  flagon,  I  will  pledge 
My  landlady,  for  wine  gives  wit  its  edge; 
It  cheers  and  it  emboldens;  tears  the  veil 
That  hides  the  heart,  and  bids  us  see  and  feel: 
And,  as  when  children  in  the  crystal  brook 
Upon  their  own,  their  very  image  look, — 
So  the  red  wine's  the  mirror  where  we  see 
Our  very  souls.     The  honey-gathering  bee 
Is  a  bright  emblem  of  our  cares;  he  goes 
Busy  o'er  all-providing  earth,  and  shows 
What  order,  care  and  zeal  can  do; — in  spring, 
From  fragrant  flowers  and  orchards  blossoming 
To  his  hive  brothers  bears  the  gather'd  stores: 
So  in  his  maiden's  lap  the  fond  youth  pours 
His  passions,  his  affections.     How  sincere 
Is  the  pure  offering  of  a  villager, 
Who  offers  honest,  ardent  love !     The  bee 
Its  emblem, —  labor, —  concord, —  purity." 
The  mother  reach 'd  the  goblets.     John's  discourse 
Delighted  all;  for  in  it  shone  the  force 
Of  a  clear  intellect,  which  God  had  given. 
He  had  bound  many  ties,  and  had  made  even 
Many  strange  odds; — at  every  wedding  feast 
He  was  the  Starost,  and  of  course  the  guest: 


248  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

And  hundred  children  call'd  him  "Father";  he 

Call'd  every  happy  home  his  family; — 

And  he  was  always  welcome.     Now  he  took 

The  goblet  in  his  hand,  and  o'er  it  shook 

The  liquid  honey.*     "  Take  it,  gentle  maid ! 

It  grew  in  distant  fields,"  he  smiling  said: 

"  Take  it,  for  thou  deservest  all  that's  sweet 

And  beautiful  in  life."     Her  glances  meet 

Her  mother's  eye,  and  with  averted  look 

'Neath  her  white  apron  hid,f  the  maiden  took 

One  solitary  drop.     The  rest  old  John 

Drank  to  the  dregs;  —  while  like  a  summer  dawn 

That  brightens  into  light  with  blushing  hue, 

The  maiden  stood;  and  the  old  man  anew 

Thus  said:  "  The  maiden's  silence  speaks;  and  now 

I'll  turn  me  to  her  mother: — Wayward  youth, 

Both  blind  and  passionate,  wants  our  guide:  in  truth 

It  cannot  penetrate  futurity, 

But  hangs  on  love,  and  trusts  to  destiny. 

Let's  lead  them  then, —  they  wander  far  astray ; 

We'll  take  their  hands,  and  guide  them  on  their  way, 

And  watch  their  happiness, —  foresee,  control 

Their  path;  and  God,  who  watches  o'er  the  whole, 

Will  turn  all  ill  to  good. — You  see  the  son 

Of  honest  sires, —  though  they,  alas !  are  gone, 

And  sleep  beneath  the  turf;  —  yet  other  sires 

Have,  pity-touch'd,  fann'd  all  affection's  fires, 

And  taught  him  virtue.     They  have  given  him  food; 

Trained  him,  an  orphan,  to  be  wise  and  good; 

*  Mead  is  a  national  beverage  of  the  Poles,  and  has  been  so  for 
many  centuries.  The  best  is  made  in  the  month*  of  July,  when  the 
lime  trees  are  in  flower,  at  which  period  the  honey  is  called  Lipiec 
Kowno,  on  the  banks  of  the  Niemen,  is  particularly  renowned  for  its 
honey. 

t  The  Polish  peasants,  as  a  general  thing,  always  turn  away  and 
cover  their  faces  when  they  drink  in  the  presence  of  others. 


BRODZINSK1.  249 

To  labor,  to  obey  them, —  in  the  fear 

Of  God  and  duty.     He  became  so  dear, 

They  call'd  him  'Son ';  they  made  him  jointly  heir; 

And  well  he  has  repaid  their  pious  care. 

Their  harvests  go  not  from  the  scythe  to  seek 

The  tavern;  —  Sunday  wastes  not  what  the  week 

Has  earn'd;  —  God's  blessing  smiles  upon  their  way. 

Rich  wheat  is  gather'd  from  their  cultured  clay; 

Their  fields  are  white  with  sheep,  and  full  their  stall. 

They  have  four  steeds  that  bear  to  Cracow  all 

The  produce  of  their  land. —  From  them  I  come. 

And  ask  yon  maid  to  decorate  their  home 

Her  Wiesiaw  saw,  and  seeing,  flew  and  pray'd 

Their  sanction  to  espouse  that  blushing  maid. 

And  Stanislaw  has  sent  me  to  demand 

From  thee,  from  her,  the  lovely  damsel's  hand. 

He  said:  '  Go  bring  her  here;  his  guide  be  thou; 

She  shall  be  welcome  if  she  love  him  now.' 

Now,  mother,  thou  hast  heard  me.     Give  the  maid, 

And  heaven  shall  blessings  with  new  blessing  braid 

I'll  praise  the  youth,  though  he  be  here, —  though  praise 

Too  oft  beguiles  us,  and  too  oft  betrays. 

They  deem  too  easily  to  win  their  end; 

And  counsel  hurts,  and  kind  reproofs  offend. 

Wiesiaw  was  modest  and  laborious;  still 

He  sometimes  was  a  Szpak*  and  had  his  will; 

He  once  stopp'd  even  the  Wojewode:  his  delight 

Has  been  to  revel  in  an  inn  at  night; 

And  he  has  driven  (0  sin!)  th1  imperial  troops, 

Cesarskie  Woiaki  t  thence ;  and  at  the  loops 

And  sandals  of  the  wandering  Highlanders  \ 

He  grinn'd  and  laugh 'd  till  his  mouth  reach'd  his  ears. 

He  was  a  sad  wild  fellow,  but  he  grew 

*  Starling,  a  bold,  noisy  fellow 

f  Austrian  soldiers. 

|  Gorale,  the  mountaineers  of  Carpatia. 


250       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

With  time  both  wiser  and  sedater  too: 

For  as  in  spring  the  swelling  stream  rolls  by, 

Foams,  dashes  o'er  its  borders  furiously, 

Then  flowing  further  glides  serenely  on, 

So  youth  is  gay  and  wild  till  youth  is  gone; 

Till,  taught  by  thick  anxieties  and  years, 

It  sheds  the  excess  of  blossoms  which  it  bears, 

And,  shaken  by  the  winds  of  want  and  woe, 

Its  flowers  drop  off  upon  the  sod  below. 

And  he  has  known  the  smiles  and  frowns  of  Heaven ; 

To  him  has  sorrow  all  its  lessons  given; 

And  now,  to  crown  his  blessings,  he  requires 

A  good  and  steady  wife;  and  his  desires 

Upon  Halina  dwell.     With  her  the  rest 

Of  life  shall  all  be  tranquillized  and  bless'd. 

My  mission  is  discharged. —  Behold  my  son! 

Give  a  kind  ear  to  Wiesiaw; —  I  have  done." 

The  observant  maiden  stood  aside,  and  traced 

Each  shadowing  thought  and  secret  jest  that  pass'd 

Across  the  good  man's  mind  and  countenance. 

He  could  not,  would  not,  wound  her;  for  his  glance 

Had  watch'd  the  influence  of  each  playful  word. 

But  Wiesiaw  bow'd  in  silence,  an    he  pour'd 

A  stream  of  suppliant  tears,  that  said  "  Forbear!  " 

Then  there  was  silence, —  silence  everywhere, — 

Till  a  full  torrent  o'er  Halina's  cheeks 

Pour'd,  as  when  many  a  pregnant  spring-cloud  breaks 

Over  the  Vistula,  and  flowers  are  dew'd 

With  freshen'd  joy;  while  the  bright  sun  renew'd, 

Towers  glorious  o'er  the  mountains.     So  the  eyes 

Of  the  fond  children  sparkled.     With  surprise 

And  with  delight  the  mother  watch'd  them, —  proud 

And  joyful.     But  some  gloomy  memories  crowd 

Upon  her  thoughts.     Halina,  she  had  naught; 

Nor  dower,  nor  parents,  nor  parental  cot, 

Nor  hope  of  wealth.     So  Jadwicz  heaved  her  breast, 


BRODZINSKI.  251 

And  thus  spoke  frankly  to  her  listening  guest: 
"  There  is  a  God  in  heaven  who  judges  all: 
He  tries  us  when  we  rise  and  when  we  fall: 
And,  raising  or  depressing,  his  decrees 
Follow  our  deeds  and  guide  us  as  they  please. 
Halina  is  an  orphan!  at  my  side 
E'en  from  her  childhood  wonted  to  abide. 
The  sun  has  risen  on  our  abode;  its  fire 
Is  far  too  bright;  for  how  should  she  aspire, — 
She  a  poor  maid, —  to  wed  the  wealthy  son 
Of  a  rich  peasant  !     Father  she  has  none, — 
No  friends, —  not  one, —  to  counsel  or  to  care. 

0  noble  youth !     May  God  reward  thee  here. 
Thy  generous  heart, —  this  kind  design;  —  yet  tell 
This  story  of  Halina, —  and  farewell ! 

When  Poland's  crown  was  by  disasters  rent, 
My  husband  and  my  brothers  swiftly  went, 
Though  arm'd  with  scythes  alone,  our  land  to  save; 
But  they  return'd  not, —  they  but  found  a  grave. 
The  cruel  stranger  all  our  country  razed, 
Our  palaces  destroy'd,  our  village  blazed. 
How  dreadful  is  the  memory  of  that  day. 
E'en  now  the  thought  is  death !     We  fled  away, — 
Old  men,  young  mothers, —  to  the  blazing  woods, 
That  scared  us  from  their  frightful  solitudes. 
0!  'twas  a  hideous, — 'twas  a  hideous  sight; 
When  life's  last  beam  went  out  and  all  was  night; 
Till  blazed  for  leagues  the  horrid  flames  again, 
Children  and  mothers  straggled  o'er  the  plain. 

1  saw  them,  and  I  wept, —  I  look'd,  and  wept 

Till  tears  had  dimm'd  my  sight.     A  child  had  crept 
Tremulous  to  my  side.     I  seized  it.     Press'd 
The  trembling  little  orphan  to  my  breast, 
And  ask'd  its  name,  its  parentage,  its  home. 
It  answer'd  not;  it  knew  not;  it  had  come 
(So  said  the  sobbing  child)  from  fire  and  flame, 


252  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

But  it  knew  not  its  nation,  nor  its  name. 

Strangers  had  led  it  thither:  —  and  no  more 

The  infant  said.     I  seized  the  child.     Though  poor, — 

I  was  a  mother  once ;  —  I  thought  of  God, 

And  led  the  orphan  to  my  mean  abode, 

And  watch'd  it;  and  her  smiles,  her  toils  repaid, 

Ten-fold  repaid,  the  sacrifice  I  made. 

She  grew, —  industrious,  healthy,  prudent,  fair, 

And  we  have  toil'd  together  many  a  year, 

With  self-same  wants  and  with  the  self-same  care. 

We  bore  our  mutual  poverty,  and  smiled, 

Though  to  a  stranger's  borrow'd  cot  exiled, — 

Nothing  possessing.     Soon  our  wealth  increased; 

Two  cows,  one  heifer,  and  six  sheep  at  least 

Were  our  own  store.     At  last,  by  care  and  toil, 

We  won  an  interest  in  our  country's  soil. 

We  sow'd  our  land  with  flax;  at  night  we  span 

For  raiment,  and  the  remnants  soon  began 

A  little  pile  for  age.     And  so  we  pass 

Our  life  away.     We  have  our  morning  mass, 

Our  joyous  evening  sports,  and  once  a  year 

Our  merry  carnival;  but  not  for  her, — 

The  rings  are  bought,  the  wreaths  are  wov'n  for  them 

Whom  fortune  crowns  with  her  own  diadem, — 

But  not  for  her!     An  orphan, —  how  should  she 

Attract  the  wealthy,  or  enchain  the  free? 

She  has  no  parent,  has  no  dower.     If  Heaven 

Shed  down  its  light,  Oh,  be  its  blessings  given 

To  no  unthankful  bosom ! — but  while  1 

Shall  live,  Halina  may  not,  cannot  fly." 

Hot  tears  broke  forth,  and  show'd  the  pangs  she  felt, 

While  the  fair  maid  before  her  mother  knelt, 

And  clasp'd  her  knees: — "  Dear  mother!  mother,  thoxi- 

Thou  art  my  dower,  my  wreath,  my  all  things  now! 

Though  mines  of  gold  were  mine,  though  castles  fair, 

And  silken  wardrobes;  yet  wert  thou  not  there 


BKODZINSKI.  253 

All  would  be  naught;  —  without  thee,  all  appears 
A  blank,  and  life's  bright  charms  a  scene  of  tears.1' 

And  so  in  silence  they  embraced.     A  gleam 
Pass'd  through  the  old  man's  mind  as  in  a  dream, 
Then  fix'd  itself  in  light.     His  raptured  soul 
Look'd  through  the  future's  maze,  and  saw  the  whole 
Future  in  glory.     Struggling  thoughts  broke  through 
His  changed  regards,  betraying  half  he  knew;  — 
And  Wieslaw  fain  would  speak;  but  John  imposed 
Peace,  and  thus  spoke: — "  The  Almighty  has  disclosed 
His  purpose,  and  inspires  me.     Now  I  see 
His  brightness  beaming  through  the  mystery. 
Motherv  confide  in  my  advice, — sincere, 
And  from  the  soul.     Go,  summon  swiftly  here 
A  carriage  and  two  steeds;  we  will  repay 
The  service  nobly, — for  we  must  away. 
We  must  away, — the  hour  of  joy  is  come; — 
Halina  shall  be  welcomed  to  our  home." 

And  swiftly,  white  with  foam,  the  horses  fly, 
And  forests,  meadows,  bridges,  plains,  run  by. 
But  all  are  sad  and  pensive — all  but  John, — 
The  proverbs,  jokes,  and  tales  are  his  alone. 
The  maiden  veil'd  her  eyes  in  doubt  and  dread ; 
He  fann'd  his  growing  joy  though  hid,  and  said 
To  his  own  heart, "  How  blest,  how  sweet  to  bring 
Bliss  to  two  houses!  "  Now  the  lime-trees  fling 
Their  lengthen'd  shadows  o'er  the  road, — the  ridge 
Of  the  brown  forest,  like  a  heavenly  bridge, 
Shines  with  pure  light.     The  breezes  blew  like  balm, 
And  the  fair  morning  dawns  serene  and  calm. 

They  hasten'd  toward  the  village ; — but  awhile 
They  tarried, — marshy  pools  for  many  a  mile 
The  path  impeded; — those  on  foot  may  make 


254       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

In  one  short  hour  their  way;  equestrians  take 

Three  hours  at  least.     On  foot  they  gaily  bound; 

The  carriage  raised  the  dust,  and  hurried  round. 

What  joy,  what  gladness  lights  Halina's  eye ! 

Why  talks  she  now  so  gay  and  sportively? 

They  cross  the  planks, — the  brushwood  maze  they  thread, 

The  sheep  and  shepherds  play  upon  the  mead: 

She  listen'd  to  the  artless  pipe;  her  ear 

Appear'd  enchanted.     Was  it  that  her  dear, 

And  now  far  dearer  Wieslaw  had  portray'd 

This  scene,  when  singing  to  the  enamor'd  maid? 

John  watch'd  her  looks  intensely.     Was  the  scene 
One  where  her  early  infant  steps  had  been? 
Now  rose  the  village  steeple  to  the  view; 
The  vesper-bells  peal'd  loudly  o'er  the  dew;  * 
They  fell  upon  their  knees  in  that  sweet  place; 
The  sunset  rays  glanced  on  Halina's  face. 
And  she  look'd  like  an  angel.     Every  vein 
Thrill'd  with  the  awaken'd  thoughts  of  youth  again, 
And  longings  which  could  find  no  words.     The  bell 
Had  burst  the  long-lock'd  portals  of  the  cell 
Of  memory;  and  mysterious  visitings, 
And  melancholy  joy,  and  shadowy  things 
Flitted  across  her  soul,  and  flush'd  her  cheek, 
Where  tear-drops  gather'd.     To  a  mountain  peak 
They  came; — the  village  burst  upon  their  view. 
They  saw  the  shepherds  lead  their  cattle  through 
The  narrow  bridge;  the  ploughmen  gaily  sped 
From  labor's  cares  to  labor's  cheerful  bed. 
The  village  like  a  garden  rear'd  its  head, 
Where  many  a  cottage-sheltering  orchard  spread; 
The  smoke  rose  'midst  the  trees;  the  village  spire 
Tower'd  meekly,  yet  in  seeming  reverence,  higher 

*  The  Poles,  in  some  localities,  believe  that  the  bells  peal  more 
loudly  while  the  dew  is  falling. 


BKODZESTSKI.  255 

Than  the  high  trees.     The  yew-trees  in  their  gloom 

Hung  pensive  over  many  a  peasant's  tomb; 

And  still  the  bells  were  pealing,  which  had  toll'd 

O'er  generations  mouldering  and  enroll'd 

In  death's  long  records-.     While  they  look'd,  old  John 

Bent  on  his  stick,  and  said  "  Look,  maiden,  on 

Our  village: — doth  it  please  thee?  Wiesiaw's  cot 

Is  nigh  at  hand."  She  heard,  but  answer'd  not: 

Her  looks  were  fix'd  upon  one  only  spot; — 

Her  bosom  heaved,  her  lips  were  dried,  her  eye 

Spoke  the  deep  reverie's  intensity. 

Remembrance  of  some  joy  had  bound  her  soul: 

She  breathed  not,  but  moved  on ; — a  cottage  wall 

Soon  caught  her  eye,  and  near  a  cross  appear'd : 

'Twas  ivy-clad  and  crumbling; — for  'twas  rear'd 

In  the  old  time; —  a  willow-tree,  a  sod, 

Where  the  gay  children  of  the  village  trod 

On  holidays,  were  there.     She  could  no  more: 

She  dropp'd  o'erpowered  upon  the  grassy  floor, 

And  cried, "  0  God !  0  God ! — 'twas  here,  'twas  here 

I  lived!  Where  is  my  mother?  Tell  me,  where? 

If  she  be  dead,  I'll  seek  her  grave,  and  weep 

My  orphan  soul  away  to  rouse  from  sleep 

Her  blessed  form. — 'Twas  here  I  play'd  of  old; — 

'Twas  here  I  gather'd  flowers: — but  I  behold 

My  mother's  cet  no  longer, — thought  flies  o'er 

Its  memory ; — but  that  cot  exists  no  more !  " 

John  answer'd  thus:  "  The  God  who  shelter'd  thee, 
Shelter'd  thy  parents; — when  the  misery 
Of  that  fierce  war  was  over,  they  return'd, 
And  joy  beam'd  o'er  the  fields  where  they  had  mourn'd. 
They  lost  their  cot,  they  lost  their  child ;  but  Heaven 
Their  dwelling  and  their  daughter  now  hath  given; 
And  they  shall  take  thee  to  their  longing  arms. 
Thank  God,  who  saved  thee  from  all  hurts  and  harms, 


256  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Who,  when  thy  helplessness  had  lost  a  mother 

Gave  thee  with  generous  tenderness  another, 

And  now  restores  thee  to  thine  own."  She  knelt, 

And  clasp'd  his  knees,  while  luxury's  tear-drops  melt 

Into  the  light  of  joy.     And  one  by  one 

They  enter'd  the  court-yard;  but  all  were  gone 

Forth  to  the  fruitful  fields.     Halina's  eye 

Wander'd  some  old  memorials  to  descry, 

And  grew  impatient.     Soon  the  sire  appeal's 

With  his  sharp  scythe;  and  next  his  wife,  who  bears 

A  truss  of  clover  for  the  stall.     Before 

Ran  young  Bronika,  gaily  turning  o'er 

A  basket  of  blue  corn-flowers;  with  her  hand 

Beckoning,  she  bid  her  parents  understand 

That  guests  were  come.  "  Go,"  said  old  John,  "  my  boy, 

And  tell  your  happy  parents  all  your  joy." 

And  what  fond  welcome  sprung  from  breast  to  breast ; 

How  oft  they  kiss'd  each  other;  how  they  prest 

Bosom  to  bosom,  heart  to  heart;  what  greeting, 

What  questions,  answers,  thanks,  engaged  that  meeting; 

And  how  the  laughing  neighbors  gather'd  round, 

And  how  Bronika,  full  of  rapture,  bound 

Her  sister  to  her  soul, — for  though  she  ne'er 

Had  known  her  loss,  her  gain  she  felt, — I  fear 

No  words  of  mine  can  compass.     Could  I  speak, 

Your  hearts  in  sympathy  would  almost  break 

With  the  bright  joy: — but  ye  have  souls  to  feel, 

And  they  will  vibrate  to  love's  proud  appeal. 

Yes !  ye  have  hearts,  with  which  ye  may  confer, 

And  they  shall  be  my  best  interpreter. 


KKASINSKI.  257 


KKASltiSKI. 

SIGISMTJND  KKASINSKI  is  the  zenith  of  Polish  poetry 
in  Poland's  land.  It  is  not  only  a  loving  heart,  an  in- 
spired soul,  not  only  a  fantasy  or  art — it  is  the  spirit 
of  the  Pole — the  spirit  of  true  manhood;  yes,  it  is  the 
spirit  of  poetry  changed  into  the  spirit  of  an  angel  and 
entered  into  the  soul  of  the  inspired  poet-prophet. 
While  writing  he  thought  of  ages,  and  ages  alone  can 
judge  him.  The  most  prominent  stamp  of  Sigismund's 
writings,  distinguishing  him  from  other  poets  contem- 
poraneous with  him,  is  the  true  prophetic  spirit,  not 
under  the  influence  of  any  play  or  fantasy,  or  any  com- 
bination, but  the  expression  of  apocalyptic  visions; 
hence  he  is  an  uncommon  phenomenon  not  only  with 
us  but  in  the  history  of  the  universal  spirit.  He  pos- 
sesses such  qualities  and  gifts  as  God  seldom  grants 
even  to  poets.  From  the  times  of  antiquity  he  took 
what  Plato  had.  From  the  law  of  Moses  and  the 
Jewish  history  he  took  the  harp  of  David.  From  the 
new  law  he  took  the  apocalyptic  visions  of  the  future. 
With  such  strange  elements,  living  in  the  midst  of 
Europe,  amidst  our  people,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  he  transformed  all  these  into  orig- 
inal poetic  creations.  Krasinski  was  second  after 
Mickiewicz  who  restored  the  high  poetic  type  of  the 
poetic  priesthood  in  literature  where  frequently  are 
found  thoughtless  leaders,  carrying  with  them  the 
doubting  and  feverish  community  into  the  regions  of 
chimera,  bad  examples  and  deceitful  prophecies.  It 
was  he  who  took  those  who  leaned  toward  egotism, 
17 


258       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

plunging  about  in  the  evanescent  pleasures  of  reality, 
and  carried  them  into  the  beautiful  worlcl  of  love  and 
self-sacrifice.  "The  Un  divine  Comedy"  is,  as  it  were, 
a  thunderbolt  sent  to  crush  the  doctrine  of  egotism 
and  human  pride,  which  renounces  allegiance  and  obe- 
dience to  God.  The  time,  place  and  persons  of  the 
comedy  are  all  created  by  the  buoyant  imagination  of 
the  poet.  This  fantastic  comedy  occasionally  breaks 
off  and  snatches  at  moments  which  are  expected  but 
have-  not  yet  arrived.  Krasinski  was  the  first  who 
ventured  to  compose  a  prophetic  drama  to  represent 
persons  and  incidents  that  were  to  come  to  pass  at 
some  future  time.  The  scenes,  however,  are  enacted 
in  Poland,  and  the  time  is  not  very  far  distant  from  us, 
because  persons  there  introduced  speak  as  we  do,  have 
our  prejudices  and  our  customs;  we  can  recognize 
them  as  belonging  to  our  generation  and  to  the  Polish 
people,  although  the  author  does  not  stamp  them  with 
any  nationality,  neither  does  he  introduce  anything 
indicating  locality.  Krasinski  comprehended  and 
grappled  the  current  of  stormy  conceptions  which,  in 
but  a  few  years  later,  ran  through  the  whole  of  Eu- 
rope, and  in  which  were  found  phases  and  figures 
drawn  by  the  hand  of  the  immortal  poet.  This  re- 
markable production,  planned  on  the  broad  back- 
ground of  modern  social  times,  takes  the  point  of  argu- 
ment that  the  causes  of  evil  arise  from  social  perverse- 
ness  which  permeates  the  different  grades  of  society, 
and  from  which  humanity  is  yet  to  suffer  for  a  long 
time;  and  that  the  possible  union  of  so  many  contra- 
dictory elements  can  only  be  effected  by  the  influences 
of  Christianity. 

The  soaring  imagination  of  Krasinski  had  at  its  call 
beautiful  and  brilliant  language,  breaking  out  in  new 


KRASINSKL  259 

turns  and  harmonious  words.  His  Christian  feeling 
was  very  pure  and  deep.  The  poet  loves  the  whole  of 
humanity,  and  he  reminds  them  of  the  holy  truths  of 
faith,  and  that  the  world  can  only  be  regenerated  by 
love. 

The  "Day -Break"  is  an  ethereal  lyric  composition 
replete  with  transcendent  beauties.  A  woman  (Beat- 
rice) is  introduced  in  the  poem  to  quicken  into  life  the 
whole  creation  of  exalted  order,  and  above  all  the  in- 
dividuality of  the  poet.  There  beams  the  pure  and 
powerful  inspiration  of  truth,  which  spreads  its  thou- 
sand poetic  colors  as  the  morning  star  of  the  day  which 
the  poet  represents  to  his  people.  "The  Dream  of 
Cesara  "  is  classed  with  prophetic  writings,  and  is  not 
indispensably  a  poetic  creation,  but  rather  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  poet's  vision,  yet  it  is  plainly  seen  that  it 
bears  the  stamp  of  truthfulness  and  can  claim  preemi- 
nence over  all  writings  of  that  class. 

"Irydion"  is  a  magnificent  poem  representing 
olden  times,  when  Rome  was  in  its  decline  —  its  great 
power  being  undermined  by  the  light  of  Christianity. 
The  incidents  are  drawn  from  the  epoch  of  Helio- 
gabalus,  and  the  persecutions  of  the  first  Christians. 
The  author  tries  to  work  out  the  idea  that  Christianity 
neither  accepts  nor  condemns  feelings  of  national  re- 
venge for  intentionally  inflicted  wrongs.  In  his 
"Psalms"  the  author  explains  to  the  world  the  mys- 
teries of  resurrection.  He  reveals  his  beautiful, 
though  perhaps  illusive,  dreams  of  the  destiny  of  his 
suffering  Fatherland;  he  praises  heroism  and  volun- 
tary devotedness  and  self-sacrifice.  Here  we  can  im- 
agine that  he  anticipated  the  sad  events  which  took 
place  in  Galicia  in  1846  (see  Ujejski's  biography). 

"The  Unfinished  Poem"  is  connected  with  "Undi' 


260  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

vine  Comedy,"  and,  according  to  the  plan  of  the  au- 
thor, was  to  constitute  the  first  part  of  the  trilogy,  of 
which  only  the  second  part  was  elaborated.  This 
poem  consists  of  five  grand  episodes,  which  are  not 
connected  with  one  another  very  closely,  but  yet  are 
put  together  so  as  to  form  a  sufficiently  prominent 
whole,  and,  although  unfinished,  it  is  nevertheless 
replete  with  resplendent  imagery  and  sublime  thoughts, 
shining  forth  with  unequaled  hue  of  style.  The  princi- 
pal purpose  of  the  poem  is  to  show  the  tendency  of 
humanity  toward  truth  and  perfection,  and  the  unceas- 
ing attempts  and  conspiracies  against  the  power  of 
truth  and  the  spirit  of  God  in  this  world. 

"  The  Present  Day  "  is  a  fantastic  expose  of  society 
going  astray  from  the  true  path,  but  warned  and  en- 
lightened by  the  words  of  the  angel  from  Heaven. 
The  poem,  being  a  creation  of  youthful  imagination,  is 
an  historical  romance,  yet  having  the  color  of  the  sub- 
limest  poesy. 

' ' Agaj  Han  "  is  taken  from  the  history  of  Marina 
Mnich,  and  Demitry  the  pretender.  Although  there 
is  much  poetic  fire  in  the  poem,  yet  it  is  pronounced 
by  the  critics  as  occasionally  offending  with  exaggera- 
tion. 

Krasifiski  was  one  of  the  greatest  moral  philoso- 
phers of  the  nineteenth  century,  as  well  as  the  most 
inspired  poet,  whose  prophetic  vision  comprehends  not 
only  the  past  and  future  ages,  but  also  the  present 
century.  He  is  clearly  a  poet  of  humanity,  who  wholly 
understood  all  the  relations  of  society;  he  was  more 
than  others;  it  is  perhaps  for  that  reason  that  he  has 
invented  a  language  of  his  own  to  express  pain  and 
inspiration  which  he  saw  in  the  sufferings  of  humanity. 
The  power  of  Krasifiski's  poetic  genius  is  so  immense 


KEASINSKL  261 

that  we  have  no  scale  in  our  literature  to  weigh  it. 
The  characteristics  of  his  poetry  are  deep  religious 
feelings;  they  in  reality  constitute  the  background  of 
the  manner  in  which  he  viewed  the  past  and  the  future; 
the  sufferings  of  a  people  as  well  as  of  individuals  he 
considered  as  mediums  through  which  come  cleansing 
and  merit. 

Krasinski  was  a  stately  and  ethereal  form  of  a 
recluse,  or  an  anchorite,  doing  penance  for  the  trans- 
gression of  his  ancestors,  blessing  the  people,  teaching 
them,  and  showing  unto  them  signs  for  the  future. 
Plunging  into  prayerful  spirit,  and  looking  toward  the 
stars,  he  viewed  the  earth  not  with  the  eye  of  a  man, 
but  with  the  one  of  an  inspired  prophet.  Pleasures 
and  amusements  of  this  world  had  no  charms  for  him. 
Having  passed  through  purgatory  of  life,  he  was  free 
from  the  prejudices  of  his  people;  but  after  deep  and 
silent  suffering,  which  was  plainly  seen  on  his  marble 
face,  he  tried  to  conceal  from  the  human  eye  the  many 
wounds  from  which  he  so  intensely  suffered  that  he 
often  threw  a  veil  of  mystery  over  himself,  desiring 
only  to  appear  to  the  people  as  their  brother  mortal, 
who  was  at  all  times  burning  offerings  at  the  altar  of 
his  country,  and  held  in  his  heart  her  sufferings  and 
her  hopes.  He  was  indeed  a  guardian  angel  of  the 
national  spirit,  and  a  physician  of  hearts  torn  to  pieces 
by  misfortune  and  sufferings,  and  he  poured  upon  the 
wounds  of  the  Polish  national  body  the  balm  of  faith, 
love,  and  hope. 

Krasifiski  was  born  on  the  19th  of  February,  1812, 
of  a  rich  and  influential  family.  His  father,  Vincent, 
was  aide-de-camp  to  Napoleon  the  Great,  and  after- 
ward the  general  of  the  Polish  army.  Up  to  the  thir- 
teenth year  of  his  life  Sigismund's  cultivation  was 


262  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

under  the  immediate  supervision  of  his  parents,  and 
under  the  guidance  of  the  poet  Joseph  Korzeniowski, 
and  other  distinguished  teachers.  In  1825  he  entered 
the  Lyceum  at  Warsaw,  where  Linde,  the  lexicographer, 
was  the  rector.  Even  at  that  early  period  of  his  life 
he  wrote  a  composition,  "The  Grave  of  Reichstall's 
Family, "from  which  it  was  inferred  that  he  possessed 
a  natural  inclination  for  dramatic  imagery;  then  he 
wrote  "  Ladislas  Herman,  "in  imitaton  of  Walter  Scott's 
style.  In  this  very  fine  romance  he  painted  the  Past 
in  a  truly  masterly  manner.  From  the  Lyceum  he 
went  to  the  University;  but  on  account  of  certain 
unpleasant  circumstances  he  thought  it  best  to  quit  it. 
He  went  then  to  Geneva,  in  Switzerland,  where  he 
wrote  his  "Black  Zawisza,"  but  it  was  lost  in  its  trans- 
mission to  Warsaw.  It  was  there  that  he  became  per- 
sonally acquainted  with  Mickiewicz  and  Odyniec,  two 
Polish  poets,  and  in  their  company  visited  the  moun- 
tains of  Switzerland.  In  1830  he  again  met  Adam 
Mickiewicz  at  Rome.  In  1832  he  was  compelled  to 
answer  personally  a  call  at  Warsaw,  although  his  state 
of  health  could  hardly  permit  of  so  long  a  journey. 
From  Warsaw  he  was  sent  to  St.  Petersburg,  where  he 
was  kept  all  winter,  although  very  ill.  He  was  suffer- 
ing so  badly  from  a  disease  of  the  eyes  that  they  at 
last  permitted  him  to  go  to  Graffenberg,  from  whence, 
after  getting  quite  well,  he  went  to  Vienna.  Here  he 
wrote  "  Agaj-Han,"  and  had  it  published  at  Breslau. 
He  left  Vienna  in  1836  and  went  to  Italy  and  Rome; 
here  he  became  acquainted  with  Julius  Slowacki,  and 
wrote  "  Irydion."  In  1838  he  went  to  Warsaw,  but  on 
account  of  illness  was  again  obliged  to  return  to  Italy. 
In  1843  he  was  married  to  Countess  Elizabeth  Branicka 
at  Dresden,  whence  they  visited  the  places  of  their 


KRASINSKI.  263 

birth,  and  then  again  went  to  Warsaw.  In  1845  he 
went  to  Nice,  where  he  wrote  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
poems,  "The  Psalms,"  in  consequence  of  which  a  con- 
troversy ensued  between  himself  and  the  poet  S'owacki. 
In  1847"  he  once  more  visited  Rome,  and  there  again 
met  Mickiewicz.  In  the  following  year  he  resided  at 
Heidelberg,  Paris,  and  Baden,  when  he  again  was 
called  to  Warsaw  in  1849;  but  the  eye  disease  coming 
upon  him  with  greater  severity  than  ever,  he  once 
more,  with  the  permission  of  the  Government,  returned 
to  Heidelberg,  and  then  to  Baden.  Toward  the  last  of 
that  year  he  was  very  assiduously  occupied  with  the 
antiquities  dug  out  by  the  Appian  Way,  and  the  follow- 
ing year  he  spent  some  time  on  the  picturesque  banks 
of  the  river  Rhine,  from  whence  for  the  third  time  he 
was  ordered  by  the  Government  to  return  to  Warsaw. 
When  his  health  began  to  fail  and  the  eye  disease 
grew  worse,  he  went  once  more  to  Heidelberg,  and  on 
the  death  of  Czar  Nicholas,  having  received  a  permis- 
sion to  reside  in  foreign  countries,  he  stopped  at  Baden, 
and  in  1856  at  Kissingen.  Later  he  journeyed  to 
Paris,  and  from  there  visited  his  father  at  Potok;  but 
soon  after  he  went  to  Plombieres  and  Ems  to  try  the 
water-cure.  In  the  same  year  he  returned  to  Paris; 
there  he  learned  of  the  death  of  his  father,  which  had 
so  great  an  effect  upon  him  that  he  fell  hopelessly  ill, 
and  died  on  the  14th  of  February,  1859. 

Krasifiski's  works  were  published  at  Warsaw,  Paris, 
Breslau,  Leszno,  Leipsic,  and  Posen. 


264       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

PRAY   FOR  ME. 

Pray  for  me  —  when  I  mourn  in  sore  depression 
Sins  of  my  fathers,  and  my  own  transgression ; 
Pray  for  me  that  when  death  at  last  shall  doom  me, 
Regrets  for  thee  arise  not  to  consume  me. 

Pray  for  me  —  that  when  with  my  God  in  Heaven, 

After  long  ages  passed,  it  shall  be  given 

My  weary  soul  to  rest  with  thee  forever, 

For.  here  much  sorrow  mars  its  high  endeavor. 

Pray  for  me  —  vain  my  life  if,  worst  of  changes, 
Thy  heart  grown  cold  from  mine  itself  estranges; 
Oh,  pray  for  me,  for  I  through  years  have  treasured 
Thy  name  with  love  unfathomed  and  unmeasured. 

Pray  for  me  —  for  my  life  is  dry  and  scentless, 
My  heart  is  faithful  though  my  fate  relentless; 
Pray  for  me  —  let  thy  words  breathe  healing  thro1  me, 
Though  thou  canst  only  be  a  sister  to  me. 

Pray  for  me — other  prayers  are  unavailing, 
Thine  only  calm  my  heart  in  its  bewailing; 
All  other  prayers  save  thine  the  pang  would  double; 
Pray  for  me  —  for  I  cling  to  thee  in  trouble. 

On  earth  without  thee  I  am  lost  and  lonely; 
My  thoughts  are  thine,  I  dream  upon  thee  only; 
Dream  that  in  far  eternities  now  hidden, 
My  soul  with  thine  shall  mingle  unforbidden. 

EVER   AND   EVERYWHERE. 

Say  not  of  me  when  I  am  in  my  grave, 
I  only  wounded  where  I  should  forbear; 
'Twas  that  I  drank  from  sorrow's  bitter  wave, 
Ever  and  everywhere. 


KKASINSKL  265 

Say  not  of  me  calm-voiced  when  I  am  gone 
That  I  have  marred  your  life  that  else  was  fair; 
I  walked  with  sunshine  from  my  own  withdrawn, 
Ever  and  everywhere. 

Say  not  of  me  as  colder  hearts  would  say 
When  I  am  dead,  that  life  had  proved  a  snare 
Because  misfortune  followed  on  my  way, 
Ever  and  everywhere. 

When  I  am  gone,  then  kindly  speak  of  me, 
Say  that  my  heart  was  frenzied  by  despair; 
I  loved  thee  from  my  soul,  if  bitterly, 
Ever  and  everywhere. 

TO  A   LADY. 

Hearts  you  may  lure  to  you  with  ardent  glances, 

Or  crush  beneath  unsympathetic  sway; 
Yet  will  you  fall  below  the  fair  ideal 

Of  womanhood,  for  which  we  wait  and  pray. 

Eyes  downward  cast,  and  cheek  whose  roseate  glowing 
Tells  not  of  knowledge,  are  to-day  as  nought ; 

Attain  to  womanhood  through  slow  ascension, 

Through  scenes  of  sorrow  rise  to  heights  of  thought. 

And  when  through  tears  and  pains  of  aspiration 

A  ray  of  Deity  outflowing  warm 
Shall  touch  your  soul  with  its  living  splendor, 

And  buds  that  blossom  in  the  day  of  storm 
Unfold  to  crown  your  pale  and  thoughtful  forehead, 

Then  will  your  beauty  take  ideal  form. 


266  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

ONCE   I   ASKED  THE   DAY. 
(Never  before  included  in  Krasinski'g  Collections.) 

Once  I  asked  the  day  why  it  was  so  bright, 

I  asked  the  thought  why  it  soared  so  free, 

And  the  heart  why  the  world  should  so  narrow  be, 

And  the  stars  why  they  shone  with  such  lustrous  light. 

I  am  son  of  the  sun,  replied  Day,  so  am  bright; 

Being  children  of  spirit,  Thought  answered,  we  soar; 

The  world  is  narrow,  said  Heart,  since  perverse  evermore; 

We  shine,  the  Stars  answered,  as  the  great  King  of  light. 

I  asked  a  gentle  maiden's  beaming  eyes 
Whence  came  such  marvelous  outlines  of  her  face, 
And  whence  to  her  soul  such  beauty  and  such  grace, 
Whence  the  rays  of  light  and  fires  of  feeling  rise. 
No  word  she  spoke  —  her  beauteous  face  alone 
With  the  expression  of  her  sweet  spirit  shone, 
Her  eyes'  light  touched  her  face  with  crimson  rays, 
And  played  in  her  feelings;  pure  spring  displays 
The  sunlight  in  depths  of  the  clear  summer  rill, 
We  can  only  solve  feelings  with  feelings  still, 
And  the  works  of  God  with  the  Heaven-sent  mind; 
But  if  'tis  not  understood  by  humankind, 
Oh,  do  not  their  dull  comprehension  resent. 
The  world  should  never  chill  your  feeling  from  Heaven  sent; 
Let  not  earthiness  a  shade  on  thy  soul's  glory  cast. 
And  when  my  sad  star  has  removed  me  far  from  thee, 
Remember  it  to  thee  could  never  permitted  be. 
By  mem'ry  of  the  dear  hours  we  have  together  passed, 
And  by  the  memoi-y  of  all  feeling  most  divine, 
Of  all  my  inspirations  holiest  and  most  bright. 
To  cast  aside  the  rays  of  radiant,  sacred  light, 
Which  even  in  the  lowliest  grave  will  o'er  me  shine 
As  it  shone  in  the  glad  morning  of  my  life's  fair  day, 
On  the  threshold  of  eternity  'twill  shed  its  ray; 


KBASINSKI.  267 

And  though  on  the  earth  it  parts  us  with  stern  behest, 
'Twill  surely  in  God  once  more  unite  us,  ever  blessed! 

EESURECTURIS. 

The  world's  a  graveyard,  kneaded  with  tears  and  gore, 
Where  none  his  Golgotha  avoids.'     Evermore  — 
Vain  is  the  spirit's  strife 

When  sorrow's  shaft  descends; 
Against  the  storms  of  life 
No  refuge  here  defends. 
Abysses  dark  ingulf  the  brave, 

At  every  step  fate  mocks  at  us, 
The  pure,  the  loved,  sink  in  the  grave, 

The  hated  live, — 'tis  ever  thus. 
Ail  is  tangling  in  a  maze  which  naught  divines, 
And  death  is  near  and  far  away: 
O'er  waves  of  future  ages  shines 
Resurrection's  Day. 

Heartless  and  insensible,  then,  must  we  be, 
Murder  with  murderers  setting  passion  free, 

'Mid  the  vile  grow  viler,  and  though  conscience  yearn, 
Make  it's  soft  voice  be  still, 
Lie,  hate,  blaspheme,  and  kill, 

And  evil  for  evil  to  this  world  return. 

In  this  alone  must  all  our  power  consist;  — 

Let  us  eat  and  drink,  and  sate  the  body  well, 

Chasing  from  the  brain  each  noble  thought,  and  swell 
Of  fortunate  and  fools  the  length'ning  list. 

Oh !  no,  that  must  not  be. 
Oh!  pause,  my  soul,  for  we 

Can  never  in  that  way 
At  humanity's  head 

Stand.     No  force  can  hold  at  bay 
But  sacrifice  the  dread 


268       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

And  unrelenting  fate 

That  crushes  us  to  naught. 
•That  is  the  lion  great 

Of  history;  —  all  pride 

And  servility  are; 
But  idle  straws  that  caught 
By  passing  breath  may  glide 
To  nothingness  afar. 

Oh!  learn  thyself  to  know; 
Seek  not  omnipotent, 

Like  Him  in  heaven,  to  grow, 
And  to  bend  thee  like  a  brute,  ne'er  give  consent, 
Knowing  no  good  save  some  fat  pasture-land  on 
This  side  the  tomb;  e'er  breaks  the  radiant  dawn 
Of  Resurrection.     Oh!  be  thou  constant  still, 
Though  worlds  should  crash  unmoved  with  dauntless  will. 
Be  tireless.     Patience,  which  'mid  every  ill 
Slowly  rears  from  naught  the  edifice  complete, 
And  which  e'er  prepares,  unshaken  by  defeat, 
The  future,  certain,  and  final  victory. 
Oh!  amid  the  storm  be  thou  tranquillity, 
Order  in  chaos,  in  discord  harmony; 
Amid  this  life's  combat,  that  no  respite  hath, 
Be  thou  the  eternal  Beauty,  calm  and  bright. 

For  cowards  and  for  Pharisees  be  wrath, 
And  menace  or  silent  contempt,  pure  as  light, 

Angelic  inspiration  for  all  men  be. 
The  rich  nourishment  that  nourishes  the  heart, 

A  sister's  tear  when  suffering  thou  dost  see, 
A  manly  voice  when  courage,  long  tried,  forsakes, 

Home,  birthplace,  wandering  exiles  find  in  thee. 
Be  hope  for  the  despairing, —  thunder  that  wakes 
The  drowsy  souls  lulled  in  corpse-like  repose. 


269 

Be  thou  the  force,  always  and  everywhere, 

That  reconciles, —  force  of  self, —  devotion  rare, 

Stronger  than  death,  and  in  the  strife  that  no  end  knows, — 

Against  the  mad  world's  abyss  of  hate,  Oh!  be 

Abyss  of  love,  pure  and  free. 

Ne'er  cease  to  give 
Thyself  unto  thy  brethren  in  form  sublime 

Of  teaching  and  example;  in  acts  that  live 
Still  multiply  thyself;  thus  for  all  time 

Thousands  of  men  shall  be  outweighed  by  thee. 

Even  in  irons  performing  acts  that  bless, 

Learn  to  bear  pain  and  bitterest  agony; 

Thy  whole  nation  living  in  thy  breast  shall  be, — 

Be  the  miracle  joins  heaven  to  earth, —  naught  less, — 

In  slavery,: —  holiness. 

Seek  not  death  till,  like  the  buried  seed  that  starts, 
Thy  grand  thoughts  be  sown  and  germing  in  the  hearts 
Of  thy  compatriots, —  till  martyrdom  alone 
A  pledge  of  certain  victory  shall  be  known. 

Strive  not  with  others'  goodness,  but  thine  own, 
Shun  martyrdom's  renown, 
And  false  vain-glory's  crown 
Leave  to  fools;  for  in  this, 

Danger's  dreadful  abyss, 
Plunge  only  heroes  brave. 
Loftiest  souls  ne'er  gave 

Heed  to  siren's  voice  of  bliss. 

When  the  tocsin  of  events  at  last  shall  swell, — 
Signal  for  thy  final  holocaust, —  a  knell 
Both  sad  and  wild,  from  thy  native  land,  then 
Kneel  down  on  eternity's  threshold ;  — When, 
So  deep  within  thy  humble  and  contrite  soul, 

Thou  hear'st  the  voice  that  only  comes  from  God  above, 
Rise,  like  a  strong  athlete  who  wins  the  goal. 


270       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Shake  off  thy  feet  earth's  dust.     With  infinite  love 
Stretch  forth  thy  arms  to  Heaven,  which  still  will  bless. 
Without  complaint,  wail,  inward  bitterness, 
Bravely  to  meet  thy  executioners  advance, 
Saluting  them  with  inmost  pitying  glance 
Of  high  immortality,  which  glorifies. 

Thus  for  the  future  thy  sacrifice  shall  be 
The  most  fruitful  witness.     From  thy  death  shall  rise 

The  germ  of  life,  for  all  men  glorious,  free. 

The  hopes  the  world  deems  idle  dreams, 

Oh!  make  them  real, — 
In  justice,  faith, — 

To  see  and  feel; 
Which,  like  a  probe  that  deeply  darts, 

Sink  in  men's  hearts, 

And  dwell  forever  there. 
Be  its  touch  light  as  air, 
A  breath,  a  sigh's  soft  thrill. 
The  world,  thy  murderer,  will 
Kneel  to  thee  in  remorse, 
Confessing  brutal  force; 
Is  impotent  to  strike 
Country  and  God  alike 
From  the  conscience  and  care 
Of  nations  ev'rywhere. 

When  the  blood  which  thy  wounds  shall  spill 
Sanctifies  thy  thought,  that  thought  will 
Draw  the  light  of  God's  judgment  strong 
On  the  impious  throng. 
Troops  and  bayonets  are  vain, 

Kings,  lies,  corruption, —  aught; 
No  people  shall  attain 

Power  against  that  thought. 


KEASINSKI.  271 


When  the  third  day  shall  dawn 
O'er  thy  agony,  on 
Thy  martyrdom's  white  tomb, — 
At  last  the  boon  shall  bloom 
For  nations, —  undefiled,- 
JUSTICE, —  God's  own  fair  child. 


SEOWACKI'S  MONUMENT  IN  PARIS  (FRANCE). 


878 


SfcOWACKL  273 


SLOWACKL 

JULIUS  SlowACKi  tried  his  strength  at  all  kinds  of 
poetry.  There  are  beautiful  lyrics  of  his;  others  again 
are  epics,  and  also  dramas.  In  each  and  every  one  of 
these  his  creative  mind  shines  with  a  resplendent  lus- 
ter. Everywhere  he  is  new,  fresh,  and  poetic;  always 
exhibiting  extraordinary  strength,  always  soaring  high. 

For  a  long  time  Slowacki  was  not  understood,  al- 
though he  was  a  poet  belonging  to  all  humanity;  but 
some  of  his  poems  were  not  understood,  and  others  did 
not  come  into  general  use.  Almost  thirty  years  had 
elapsed  before  the  people  could  look  into  them  and 
fully  comprehend  them.  But  as  everything  of  the 
highest  order  will  ultimately  find  its  vindication  with 
the  people,  so  it  was  with  Stowacki's  writings;  they  at 
last  found  their  deserved  acknowledgment  and  justifi- 
cation. 

Of  all  the  poets  from  Krasicki  to  Krasinski,  no  one 
possessed  greater  power  of  fantasy  than  Stowacki. 
This  was  shown  in  a  volume  of  poems  written  at  the 
time  of  the  Polish  Revolution  (1831),  and  since  its  fall. 
Another  poem,  "Zmija"  (the  Viper),  is  also  a  fan- 
tastic production.  But  there  is  much  higher  and  truer 
poetic  merit  in  his  "John  Bielecki."  The  subject  is 
taken  from  the  Polish  Chronicles,  partly  oral,  of  a  cer- 
tain occurrence  having  taken  place  in  eastern  Galicia. 
Here  the  portraitures  of  the  Polish  nobility  are  strik- 
ing, and  scattered  throughout  the  poem  very  happily, 
showing  the  greatest  force,  and  with  it  the  character- 
istics of  his  own  individuality  as  a  man  of  uncommon 
genius.  "  The  father  of  the  stricken  with  the  plague," 
18 


274     POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

in  El-Arish,  contains  in  it  a  power  likening  to  the  suf- 
fering of  the  Laocoon  not  carved  in  wood  nor  chiseled 
in  marble,  but  in  the  painting  of  poetic  genius. 
Among  all  the  creations  of  Siowacki,  nor  in  the  whole 
Polish  literature,  is  there  anything  that  could  equal  it 
in  finish,  conciseness,  power  and  truth,  and  finally  the 
incomparable  mastery  in  the  diversification  of  the  par- 
ticulars of  this  awe-inspiring  poem.  What  the  statue 
of  Laocoon  or  the  groups  of  Niobe  is  in  sculpture, 
"The  father  of  the  plague-stricken"  is  in  Slowacki's 
poetry.  If  it  concerned  the  vivid  representation  of 
accumulated  strokes  of  misfortune  heaping  thunder- 
bolts upon  the  head  of  a  doomed  human  being,  weep- 
ing till  its  tears  are  dry,  and  moaning  under  the  weight 
of  misery  until  the  last  vestige  of  human  feeling  is 
gone;  when  it  becomes  a  lifeless  statue,  unable  to 
weep  or.  feel  more  —  to  reflect  over  its  unutterable  mis- 
ery—  then  surely  Stowacki's  design  is  fully  accom- 
plished. 

Then  comes  "Hugo,"  tales  of  the  Crusades,  fol- 
lowed by  "Balladyna,"  and  "Lilla  Weneda."  The 
first  one  a  beautiful  epopee,  not  exactly  in  the  Ho- 
meric style,  but  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  Ariosto; 
prehistoric  account  of  Poland  is  the  subject.  "In 
Switzerland "  is  a  charming  idyllic  intermixed  with 
tragic  incidents,  so  abstruse  and  yet  so  truthful  that  it 
is  not  possible  to  find  any  such  love-dream  in  any  for- 
eign tongue.  Truth  and  fiction,  reality  and  poetry, 
man's  love  and  genius  of  the  artist,  all  here  strike 
hands  to  produce  a  poetic  creation,  and  one  knows  not 
which  to  admire  the  most.  In  ' '  Waclaw "  is  a  full 
confession  of  beautiful  motives,  such  as  are  seldom  to 
be  found.  This  poem  is  equal  to  any  of  Lord  Byron's 
in  the  masterly  carving  out  of  each  particular.  ' '  The 


S£OWACKL  275 

Arab"  and  "The  Monk"  are  also  wrought  in  an  ar- 
tistic manner.  "The  Silver  Dream  of  Salomea" 
seems  to  be  only  a  dramatized  tale  concerning  two  dif- 
ferent pairs  of  married  people,  who,  in  order  to  accom- 
plish the  desired  end  of  being  united  in  marriage, 
have  to  wade  through  a  sea  of  misfortunes  and  fears 
caused  by  national  troubles,  which  so  ruthlessly  passed 
over  their  devoted  heads.  It  is  for  that  reason  that 
the  poet  called  it  "The  Eomantic  Drama."  The 
tragedy  "Mindowe"  is  one  of  the  latest  of  the  poet's 
productions.  In  this  tragedy  the  incidents  relate  to 
the  times  when  Lithuania  had  not  yet  the  light  of 
Christianity.  In  represents  the  renegacy  and  the  re- 
turn to  the  faith  of  his  sires  of  Prince  Mendog.  The 
tragedy  "Mazeppa"  is  full  of  tragic  incidents,  and  of 
vivid  and  passionate  poetry;  where  the  most  delicate 
shades  of  human  nature  are  wrought  up  to  perfection. 
The  background  of  "Kordyan"  is  the  age,  which, 
from  the  very  beginning,  the  poet  reproaches  and  chas- 
tises for  its  dwarfishness,  condemned  to  pass  away  as 
unworthy  of  mention.  The  poet  here  creates  a  charac- 
ter which  is  too  exalted,  and  outgrew  the  littleness  of 
the  spirit  of  the  present  generation.  He  feels  keenly 
the  misery  of  this  life,  and  desires  to  fill  it  with  some- 
thing more  noble,  and  hence  throws  himself  about, 
here  and  there,  to  attain  the  desired  object.  Slo- 
wacki's  "Kordyan"  unites  almost  all  the  character- 
istics of  greatness  and  the  contempt  of  life  —  ready  for 
all  sacrifices,  desire  for  fame,  bravery  and  noble  pride. 
In  the  historical  drama  "Maria  Stuart"  the  frame 
of  the  picture  is  tolerably  narrow.  It  was  not  the  in- 
tention of  Stowacki,  as  it  was  of  Schiller,  in  the  trag- 
edy of  the  same  name,  to  draw  within  the  confines  of 
it  the  whole  history  of  the  given  epoch,  but  for  all 


276  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

that  there  are  in  it  splendid  passages  that  enchant  the 
reader.  The  verse  is  flowery  and  masterly,  and  his 
language  sparkles  with  diamonds  of  the  first  water. 
The  epopee  "  Sambro"  proves  Slowacki's  great  power 
of  fancy  and  a  great  gift  of  poetical  invention.  The 
subject  is  taken  from  Greek  history,  that  is  to  say  from 
the  last  part  of  it  of  last  century.  He  tries  to  repre- 
sent a  hero  endowed  with  every  necessary  condition, 
and  to  excite  for  him  the  wonder  and  admiration  of 
the  reader,  whereas  it  is  discovered  that  from  under 
these  artificial  coverings  appears  a  man  full  of  moral 
corruption  —  the  more  unpleasant  to  the  eye  since  it  is 
plainly  seen  that  he  comes  out  with  gigantic  preten- 
sions which  nothing  can  justify. 

It  being  impossible  for  our  poet  to  travel  all  the 
time  in  the  realms  of  poetic  fantasy  of  the  past,  and 
hearing  the  subterranean  meanings  and  weeping  of  the 
people,  he  created,  with  a  power  at  once  charming  and 
genial,  "Anhellim,"  where  the  infernal  regions  of  Siberia 
take  a  shape  of  strange  illusion  which  makes  it  beau- 
tiful and  fearful,  dismal  and  at  the  same  time  enticing. 
In  this  production  the  poet  gives  a  portraiture  of 
the  fate  of  the  whole  people,  and  a  review  of  their 
relations  which  we  suffer  for  the  guilt  of  others,  as 
also  of  transgression  of  which  we  ourselves  are  guilty. 
It  was  the  poet's  fancy  to  call  a  Siberia  the  whole  of 
our  social  condition.  The  doctrine  advanced  in 
"Anhellim"  is  turbid  and  fantastic, —  it  loses  itself  in 
the  unfathomable  depth  of  mysticism,  arid  is  written  in 
biblical  style.  In  "  Bieniowski  "  one  is  reminded  from 
its  construction  of  Byron's  "  Don  Juan,"  but  in  spirit 
it  resembles  the  creations  of  Ariosto.  The  poem 
uncovers  to  the  reader  the  bloody  wars  toward  the  end 
of  the  last  century,  in  which  Poland  has  manifested 


SLOWACKI.  277 

her  patriotism,  which  are  shown  by  various  drifts  in 
the  poem.  Here,  in  imitation  of  an  English  bard, 
Slowacki  marks  strongly  his  own  individuality.  Be- 
sides the  strophes  marked  by  deep  moral  feeling, 
colored  mostly  by  the  poet's  fancy,  we  find  others  in 
which  is  seen  a  most  extraordinary  power  of  language 
in  form,  and  unlimited  bitterness  of  feeling.  This 
powerful  poem  by  turns  causes  tears  to  flow,  aston- 
ishes, cheers  up  the  public,  and  moves  their  passions. 
Being  deeply  engaged  in  the  investigation  of  questions 
beyond  the  comprehension  of  human  understanding, 
brought  about  by  Towianski  (a  votary  of  whose  doc- 
trines Stowacki  became),  it  engrossed  his  mind  to  such 
a  degree  that  in  his  last  composition  their  influence  is 
obvious.  It  is  plainly  seen  in  his  "  Priest-Mark,"  a 
drama  in  which  the  character  and  stamping  of  the 
Jewess  Judith  answers  exactly  the  conception  of  Tow- 
ianski's  sect  as  regards  the  mission  of  the  Jewish 
people.  From  the  plot  and  characters  introduced  it  is 
evident  that  the  poet  was  intent  upon  the  conquering  of 
the  evils  of  the  world,  and  the  erecting  upon  their  ruins 
of  a  great  epoch  of  the  future  for  the  people  and  for 
humanity  itself. 

"The  Spirit  King"  was  the  first  great  national  epopee 
in  song  wherein  the  author  puts  aside  the  veil  and  pre- 
sents to  view  his  grand  philosophical  thoughts  in  regard 
to  his  country;  and  in  order  to  legitimize  it  the  author 
gives  us  to  understand  that  he  thoroughly  comprehends 
the  long  sufferings  of  his  nation;  and  we  further  infer 
that  the  poet  knew  the  way  to  solve  the  problem  of  the 
nation's  future  destiny.  The  author  makes  this  pro- 
duction an  offering  upon  the  altar  of  art  for  humanity, 
but  not  for  the  real  interest  of  a  perishable  generation. 
"  The  Spirit  King  "  displaces  but  does  not  divide  the 


278       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

vital  parts  of  his  country.  His  plan  comprehends  the 
eternal  future,  history  corroborates  it;  the  present  bears 
witness  to  it,  and  the  future  will  demonstrate  its  truth. 
All  of  Slowacki's  works  possess  a  powerful  feeling, 
exalted  thoughts,  and  stormy  passions.  Oftentimes  he 
pours  out  to  the  world  the  bitterness  of  his  heart;  but 
above  all  his  fancy  is  so  active  that  his  mind  and  feel- 
ing can  hardly  keep  pace  with  it. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  he  reaches  with 
so  much  tenderness  the  hearts  of  the  Polish  youth.  He 
was  their  songster  and  their  spiritual  leader.  The  spirit 
of  youth,  like  the  gentle  breezes  of  spring,  breathes 
from  every  one  of  his  songs.  The  age  of  dreams,  the 
inward  emotions  of  the  soul,  and  sudden  but  noble 
impulses,  permeate  each  of  his  creations. 

Slowacki  was  born  in  1809  at  Krzemieniec,  where 
his  father,  Euzebius,  was  a  professor  of  the  Polish 
language.  He  received  the  rudiments  of  education  at 
Wilno,  and  after  finishing  the  course  there,  in  1824 
entered  the  University.  In  1826  he  went  to  Odessa, 
and  after  completing  his  academic  studies  he  entered  in 
1828  as  assistant  in  the  treasury  department  in  War- 
saw. Here  he  wrote  "  The  Mother  of  God, "and  the 
tragedy  "  Mindowe."  Owing  to  the  revolution  of 
1831,  and  adhering  to  the  moderate  party,  he  left  for 
Dresden,  from  whence  he  was  made  a  member  of  the 
diplomatic  mission  going  to  Paris.  Then  he  went  to 
London,  and  after  the  taking  of  Warsaw,  being  for- 
bidden to  return  to  Poland,  he  went  again  to  Paris  and 
lived  in  seclusion,  but  ardently  engaged  in  the  cause  of 
Polish  emigration.  In  1832  he  left  for  Geneva,  where 
he  took  up  his  abode  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Geneva, 
and  wrote  the  poem  "Lambro,"  "The  Hour  of 
Thought,"  "  Duma  Waclaw  Rzewuski,"  and  "  Paris." 


SLOWACKI.  279 

He  then  went  to  Greece,  the  East,  and  Italy.  At 
Rome  he  met  Sigisnumd  Krasinski,  returned  to  Greece 
again,  and  in  1856  went  to  Egypt.  From  Cairo,  on  a 
camel,  he  travels  to  Gaza,  through  the  desert,  and 
reaches  Jerusalem,  and  from  there  he  visits  Palestine, 
Mount  Lebanon,  Damascus,  and  the  ruins  of  Balbek. 
At  Beyrout  he  wrote  the  celebrated  poem  "The  Father 
of  the  Plague-Stricken,"  founded  upon  facts  of  sad 
adventure,  in  which  he,  with  his  associates,  took  a 
prominent  part  during  two  weeks'  quarantine  at 
El-Arish.  At  Beyrout  he  went  in  a  sail-vessel  in  1837 
to  Livorno.  In  the  following  year  he  resided  at 
Florence,  where  he  published  his  "  Anhelli."  In  1839 
he  returned  to  Paris,  where  he  resided  till  his  death; 
and  though  amidst  ,  many  members  of  the  Polish 
emigration,  he  lived  most  of  the  time  in  seclusion.  He 
looked  with  somewhat  envious  eye  upon  Mickiewicz's 
reputation,  between  whom  and  himself  there  was  ap- 
parent coolness, — Mickiewicz  in  his  lectures  on  Litera- 
ture having  his  name  mentioned  but  once,  and  that, 
too,  rather  indiiferently.  This  year  he  published  his 
"Balladyna,"  and  in  the  following  year  "Lillia 
"Weneda "  and  "  Mazeppa  "  were  also  brought  out. 
Under  the  influence  of  a  morbid  feeling  he  published 
"  Bieniowski,"  in  1841,  where  he  bitterly  complains  of 
the  indifference  of  some  people, —  Mickiewicz  and  the 
critics  receiving  their  share.  In  the  same  year  he 
joined  Towianski's  sect,  and  a  happy  reconciliation 
took  place  between  himself  and  Mickiewicz;  but  shortly 
after  the  proud  and  independent  feeling  of  Slowacki 
caused  him  to  leave  the  Towianski  Union,  and  the  poet 
himself  became  the  head  of  a  separate  sect,  small  in 
number,  but  surpassing  even  Towianski  in  mysticism. 
Under  the  deep  impression  of  the  doctrines  of  this  sect 


280       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

he  wrote  "  Priest-Mark, "  and  also  the  drama  "The 
Silver  Dream  of  Salomea." 

The  occurrences  of  1848  reanimated  him  once  more; 
so  much  so  that  he  left  Paris  for  Posen,  but  did  not 
remain  long.  While  returning  through  Breslau  to 
Paris,  after  the  wandering  of  years,  he  saw  and  pressed 
to  his  heart  his  beloved  mother.  Returning  to  Paris 
he  fell  into  a  dangerous  illness  and  never  recovered 
from  it.  Seeing  that  he  was  about  to  end  his  earthly 
career  he  united  himself  with  God,  and  expired  the 
3d  of  April,  1849. 

His  poems  were  published  at  different  times  and  dif- 
ferent places,  but  the  most  complete  edition  of  his 
works,  in  four  volumes,  was  published  in  a  library  of  the 
Polish  writers  in  1861.  In  1866-7  Professor  Malecki 
published  at  Lemberg,with  an  addition  of  a  biographical 
studium,  several  literary  productions  of  Slowacki  hith- 
erto unknown.  The  following  are  the  titles:  "Wal- 
lace," a  tragedy;  " Krakus," and  "Beatrice  di  Cenci "; 
"Wallenrod,"  a  drama;  "The  Black  Zawisza,"  a 
drama;  "John  Casimir,"  a  drama;  "The  Incorrigi- 
bles,"  whilom  entitled  the  "New  Dezanira,"  a  drama; 
"  The  Golden  Cup,"  a  drama;  "The  Poet  and  the  In- 
spiration," a  fragment  liry co-dramatic;  "  Samuel  Zbor- 
owski,"  a  fantastic  poem;  "  Journey  to  the  East,"  con- 
tinuation of  "  Bieniowski";  "Conversations  with 
Mother  Makryna,"  a  poem;  and  "  The  Genesis  of  the 
Spirit,"  a  prayer  in  prose. 

I   AM   SO   SAD,  0   GOD! 

I  am  so  sad,  0  God !     Thou  hast  before  me 
Spread  a  bright  rainbow  in  the  western  skies, 

But  hast  quenched  in  darkness  cold  and  stormy 
The  brighter  stars  that  rise; 


SiSOWACKL  281 

Clear  grows  the  heaven  'neath  thy  transforming  rod, 
Still  I  am  sad,  0  God! 

Like  empty  ears  of  grain  with  heads  erected 
Have  I  delighted  stood  amid  the  crowd, 

My  face  the  while  to  stranger  eyes  reflected 
The  calm  of  summer's  cloud; 

But  Thou  dost  know  the  ways  that  I  have  trod, 
And  why  I  grieve,  0  God! 

I  am  like  to  a  weary  infant  fretting 

Whene'er  its  mother  leaves  it  for  a  while, 

And  grieving  watch  the  sun,  whose  light  in  setting 
Throws  back  a  parting  smile; 

Though  it  will  bathe  anew  the  morning  sod, 
Still  I  am  sad,  0  God! 

To-day  o'er  the  wide  waste  of  ocean  sweeping 
Hundreds  of  miles  away  from  shore  or  rock, 

I  saw  the  cranes  fly  on,  together  keeping 
In  one  unbroken  flock; 

Their  feet  with  soil  from  Poland's  hills  were  shod, 
And  I  was  sad,  0  God! 

Often  by  strangers'  tombs  I've  lingered  weary, 
Since  grown  a  stranger  to  my  native  ways, 

I  walk  a  pilgrim  through  a  desert  dreary, 
Lit  but  by  lightning's  blaze, 

Knowing  not  where  shall  fall  the  burial  clod 
Upon  my  bier,  0  God! 

Sometime  hereafter  will  my  bones  lie  whitened, 
Somewhere  on  strangers'  soil,  I  know  not  where; 

I  envy  those  whose  dying  hours  are  lightened, 
Fanned  by  their  native  air; 

But  flowers  of  some  strange  land  will  spring  and  nod 
Above  my  grave,  0  God! 


282       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

When  but  a  guileless  child  at  home  they  bade  me 
To  pray  each  day  for  home  restored,  I  found 

My  bark  was  steering — how  the  thought  dismayed  me — 
The  whole  wide  world  around! 

Those  prayers  unanswered,  wearily  I  plod 
Through  rugged  ways,  0  God! 

Upon  the  rainbow,  whose  resplendent  rafter 

Thy  angels  rear  above  us  in  the  sky, 
Others  will  look  a  hundred  years  hereafter, 

And  pass  away  as  I; 
Exiled  and  hopeless  'neath  thy  chastening  rod, 

And  sad  as  I,  0  God! 

EXTRACTS  FROM  S£OWACKI'S  TRAGEDY  OF  MIN- 
DOWE,*  OR  LEGATE'S  REVENGE. 

Mindowe,  King  of  Litwania,  having  embraced  the  Christian 
religion,  his  mother,  who  is  blind,  together  with  his 
nephew  Troinace,  conspire  to  effect  his  death.  Mindowe 
has  banished  <Lawski,  the  Prince  of  Nalzhaski,  and  es- 
sayed to  win  the  affections  of  his  wife.  £awski,  not  being 
heard  of  for  some  time,  is  supposed  to  be  dead.  The  scene 
opens  just  after  the  baptismal  rites  of  the  monarch. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  II. — The  royal  presence-chamber. 

Enter  CASIMIB  and  BASIL,  from  different  sides. 

Basil.    Saw  you  the  rites  to-day,  my  Casimir? 

Casimir.   I  saw  what  may  I  never  see  again, 
The  altars  of  our  ancient  faith  torn  down, 
Our  king  a  base  apostate,  groveling 
Beneath  a  — 

*  Pronounce  Mincloveh. 


Basil  (interrupting  him).   Hold!  knowest  thou  not 
The  ancient  saw  that  "palace  walls  have  ears!  " 
The  priests  throng  round  us  like  intruding  flies, 
And  latitude  of  speech  is  fatal. 

Casimir.    True  — 

I  should  speak  cautiously — But  hast  seen 
The  Prince  ? 

Basil.    Who?     Troinace? 
Casimir.   The  same. 

Ha!  here  he  comes,  and  with  the  queen-mother  — 
It  is  not  safe  to  parley  in  their  presence.     Hence 
Along  with  me,  I've  secrets  for  thine  ear. 

\Exit  CASIMIR  and  BASIL. 
RONELVA   enters,   leaning   upon   the   arm   of  TROINACE,  and 

engaged  with  him  in  conversation. 
Troinace.    Thou  hast  a  son,  Ronelva,  crowned  a  king! 
Ronelva.    Is  he  alive?  with  sight  my  memoiy  fails. 
Once  I  beheld  the  world,  but  now  'tis  dark  — 
My  soul  is  locked  in  sleep  —  0  God!  0  God! 
My  son!  hast  seen  my  royal  son?     The  king, 
Thy  uncle,  Troinace?     How  is  he  arrayed? 

Troinace.    In  regal  robes,  and  with  a  jeweled  cross 
Sparkling  upon  his  breast. 

Ronelva.   A  cross!  —  what  cross? 
'Tis  not  a  symbol  of  his  sovereignty  — 

Troinace.    It  is  a  gift  made  by  his  new  ally, 
The  Pope. 

Ronelva.   The  Pope !  —  The  Pope !  I  know  none  such ! 
Who  is  this  Pope!  —  Is't  he  who  sends  new  gods 
To  old  Litwania?     Yes  —  I've  heard  of  him — (A  pause.) 
Enter  MINDOWE,  crowned,  and  arrayed  in  purple,  with  a  dia- 
mond cross  upon  his  breast,  and  accompanied  by  HEIDENRIC, 
the  Pope's  Legate.     HERMAN  precedes  them  bearing  a  golden 
cross.     £AWSKI,  disguised  as  a  Teutonic  knight,  with  a  rose, 
upon   his    helmet  and   his   visor   down,    bearing   a   casket. 
LTJTUVER  attending  the  king.     £AWSKI  stands  apart. 


284       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Ronelva.    I  feel  that  kindred  blood  is  near,  Mindowe! 
Thy  mother  speaks !  approach !     [He  approaches. 

Hast  thou  returned 

From  some  new  expedition?     Is  thy  brow 
Covered  with  laurels,  and  thy  stores 
Replete  with  plunder?     Do  I  hear  the  shouts, 
TV  applause  of  the  Litwanians,  hailing  thee 
As  conqueror.     Returnest  thou  from  ZMUDZIE, 
From  Dwina's  shores  triumphant?    Has  the  Russian  Bear 
Trembled  before  thy  sword?     Does  Halicz  fear 
Thy  angry  frown?     Speak!  with  a  mother's  tears 
I'll  hail  thee  conqueror. 

Mindowe.    My  mother!  why 

These  tones  and  words  sarcastic?  knowest  thou  not 
That  victory  perches  on  another's  helm? 
I  am  at  peace,  and  am  —  a  Christian  king. 

Ronelva.   Foul  shame  on  thee,  blasphemer  f 

Hast  thou  fallen 

As  low  as  this?     Where  is  thy  bold  ambitipn! 
To  what  base  use  hast  placed  thy  ancient  fame? 
Is't  cast  aside  like  to  some  foolish  toy 
No  longer  worth  the  hoarding?     Shame  upon 
Thy  craven  spirit!     Canst  thou  live  without 
That  glorious  food,  which  e'en  a  peasant  craves, 
Holding  it  worthless  as  thy  mother's  love. 
And  thy  brave  father's  faith? 

Mindowe.    Nay,  mother,  nay! 
Dismiss  these  foolish  fancies  from  thy  brain. 
Behold!  my  jeweled  brow  is  bent  before  thee. 
Oh,  bless  thy  son! 

Ronelva.   Thou  vile  apostate!     Thou 
Dare  ask  for  approbation?     Thou!  —  I  curse  thee! 
Sorrow  and  hate  pursue  thy  faltering  steps. 
Still  may  thy  foes  prove  victors;  subjects  false; 
Thy  drink  be  venom,  and  thy  joy  be  woe. 
Thy  mind  filled  with  remorse,  still  mayst  thou  live. 


SEOWACKI.  285 

Seeking  for  death,  but  wooing  it  in  vain; 

A  foul,  detested,  blasted  renegade  — 

I  have  bestowed  to  earth  a  viper,  but 

From  thee  shall  vipers  spring,  who  like  their  sire 

Shall  traitors  be  unto  their  native  land, 

And  eager  plunge  them  into  ruin's  stream ! 

Depart!  and  bear  thy  mother's  curse! 

Mindowe.    Mother, 
My  mother  — 

Ronelva.   Call  me  not  mother,  viper! 
I  do  disclaim  thee : —  thee, —  and  all  thy  seed ! 

[Exit  RONELVA,  leaning  on  TROINACE. 
Mindowe  (speaking  as  though  awe-stricken). 
Heard  ye  that  curse? 

Heidenric.    What  are  the  frantic  words 
Of  a  revengeful  woman?     Empty  air  — 
Mindowe.    A  mother's  curse !     It  carries  pestilence, 
Blight,  misery  and  sorrow  in  its  train. 
No  matter!     It  is,  as  the  Legate  says, 

But  "  empty  air."  (To  HEIDENRIC.)  What  message  do  you  bear? 
Heidenric.  Thus  to  the  great  Litwanian  king,  Pope  Innocent 
(Fourth  of  the  name  who've  worn  the  papal  crown) 
Sends  greeting:     Thou  whose  power  extends 
From  fartherest  Baltic  to  the  shores  of  Grim, 
Go  on,  and  prosper.     Though  unto  thy  creed 
He  thinks  thy  heart  is  true,  still  would  he  prove  — 

(MINDOWE  starts,  and  exclaims  "  Ha!") 
Send  thou  to  him  as  neighboring  monarchs  do 
An  annual  tribute.     So  he'll  bless  thy  arms 
That  ere  another  year  elapses  Russ'  shall  yield, 
And  Halicz  fall  before  thy  conquering  sword. 

Mindowe.   Thanks  to  the  Pope.     I'll  profit  by  his  leave; 
I'll  throw  my  troops  in  Muscovy,  and  scourge 
The  hordes  of  Halicz,  move  in  every  place 
Like  an  avenging  brand,  and  say:  The  Pope 
Hath  giv'n  me  power.     But,  hark  ye!  Legate, 


286       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

What  needs  so  great  a  priest  as  he  of  Rome 
•With  my  red  gold  to  buy  him  corn  and  oil? 
Explain !  I  do  not  understand  the  riddle. 

Heidenric.    He  merely  asks  it  as  a  pledge  of  friendship, 
But  nothing  more.     The  proudest  kings  of  Europe 
Yield  him  such  tribute. 

Mindowe.    Tribute!  base  priest! 
Whene'er  thy  master  asks  for  tribute,  this  — 

(Striking  his  sword.) 
Is  my  reply.     What  hast  thou  there? 

Heidenric.    A  gift  — 
A  precious  relic  of  most  potent  virtue. 
Thou'st  heard  of  St.  Sebastian?  holy  man! 
He  died  a  martyr.     This  which  brought  him  death 
Is  sent  unto  thee  by  his  holiness  — 

(Presents  a  rusty  spear-head.) 

Mindowe.    Fie  on  such  relics !     I  could  give  thy  Pope 
A  thousand  such !     This  dagger  by  my  side 
Has  hung  from  childhood.     It  has  drank  the  blood 
Of  many  a  foe  that  vexed  my  wrath ;  and  oft 
Among  them  there  were  men,  and  holy  men, 
As  holy,  sir,  as  e'er  was  St.  Sebastian. 
Heidenric.    Peace,  thou  blasphemer! 
Mindowe  (angrily).    How!  dost  wish  thy  head 
To  stand  in  safety  on  thy  shoulders? 
What  means  this  insolence,  sir  Legate? 
Think'st  thou  that  I  shall  kneel,  and  bow,  and  fawn, 
And  put  thy  master's  iron  yoke  upon  me? 
They  act  not  freely  whom  the  fetters  bind, 
And  none  shall  forge  such  galling  chains  for  me! 
There's  not  one  more  Mindowe  in  the  world, 
Nor  is  your  Pope  a  crowned  Litwanian  king. 

Heidenric.    I  speak  but  as  the  representative 
Of  power,  supreme  o'er  earthly  monarchs 

Mindowe.   Thou  doest  well  to  shelter  thus  thyself 
Under  the  shield  of  thy  legation.     Hast 


SEOWACKI.  287 

Aught  more  to  utter  of  thy  master's  words, 
Aught  more  to  give? 

Heidenric.   I  have  a  gift  to  make 
Unto  thy  queen. 

Mindowe.    The  queen  hath  lain,  sir  prince, 
In  cold  corruption  for  a  twelvemonth  back. 
What  means  this  mockery? 

Heidenric.    Pardon,  my  lord! 
It  was  not  known  unto  his  holiness. 
The  forests  of  Litwania  are  so  dark 
They  shut  her  doings  from  her  neighbor's  ken. 
If  then  the  queen  be  dead  who  shall  receive 
This  goodly  gift? 

Mindowe.    My  mother  — 

Heidenric.   If  I  may  judge 
By  what  I  heard  e'en  now,  she'd  not  accept 
Our  offering. 

Mindowe.   Then  give  the  gorgeous  gaw 
To  i/awski's  widow  —  she  who  soon  will  be 
My  crowned  queen.     Summon  her  hither,  page. 

[Exit  PAGE. 

Attendants,  take  from  hence  these  costly  gifts, 
And  give  them  in  the  royal  treasurer's  care  — 

[Exit  Attendants,  as  ALDONA  enters. 
Here  comes  my  spotless  pearl,  the  fair  Aldona, 
The  choicest  flower  of  the  Litwanian  vales. 
Address  thy  speech  to  her. 

Heidenric.    Beauteous  maid, 
Accept  these  golden  flowers  from  Tiber's  banks, 
Where  they  have  grown,  nursed  by  the  beams  of  faith. 
Nor  deem  less  in  value  that  they  are 
By  the  bright  luster  of  thine  eyes  eclipsed. 

Aldona.    These  costly  jewels  and  the  glare  of  gold, 
Albeit  they  suit  not  my  mourning  weeds 
May  serve  as  dying  ornaments.     As  such 
I  will  accept  them. 


288  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Heidenric  (aside).   Ay!  I  warrant  me. 
Like  to  most  women  she  accepts  the  gift. 
No  farther  questions.     Gold  is  always — gold. 
(Motions  to  ivAwsKi  to  approach  ALDONA.     He  does  so,  trem- 
blingly.) 

Mindowe  (to  £AWSKI).    Thou  tremblest,  Teuton! 
(&AWSKI  raises  his  visor  as  he  approaches  ALDONA.     She  recog- 
nizes his  features,  shrieks,  and  falls.     Exit  &AWSKI.) 

Mindowe.   Help  here,  she  swoons. 
Without  there. 

(Enter  Attendants.) 
Bear  her  hence.     Pursue  that  knight. 

[Exit  Attendants  with  ALDONA. 
(To  HEIDENRIC.)    What  means  this  mystery? 

Heidenric.   I  know  not,  sire. 
He  said  that  he  had  vowed  whilst  in  our  train 
For  certain  time  to  keep  his  visor  down. 
He's  taciturn.     This  with  his  saddened  air, 
Together  with  the  rose  upon  his  helm, 
The  emblem  of  the  factious  house  of  York, 
Bespeak  him  English.     To  my  thought,  at  least. 

Mindowe.    Think  ye  such  poor  devices  can  deceive? 
He  is  a  spy  —  a  base,  deceitful  spy. 
Begone!  for  by  my  father's  sepulcher 
I  see  a  dagger  in  my  path.     Begone! 

[Exit  HEIDENRIC  and  HERMAN. 
Approach  Lutuver.     Didst  thou  see  that  knight 
Who  left  so  suddenly? 

Lutuver.    I  did  so,  sire, 
But  'f  all  the  group  I  least  suspected  him 
Of  treasonable  practices.     He's  silent, 
For  no  one  understands  his  language  here; 
He  keeps  aloof  from  men,  because  he's  sad; 
He's  sad,  because  he's  poor;  so  ends  that  knight. 

Mindowe  (not  heeding  him). 
I  tell  thee  that  my  very  soul's  pulse  throbbed, 


SEOWACKI.  289 

And  my  heart  cast  with  quicker  flow  my  blood, 

When  that  young  knight  approached  Aldona.      (Muses.) 

Now,  by  the  gods,  I  do  believe  'tis  he  — 

The  banished  i/awski,  here  to  dog  my  steps  — 

What  thinkst  thou,  Lutuver? 

Lutuver.   Slay  him,  sire! 
If  it  be  he,  he's  taken  from  thy  path, 
If  not  —  to  slay  a  Teuton  is  no  crime. 

Mindowe.  Thou  counselest  zealously.  But  still,thy  words 
Fall  not  upon  an  ear  which  thinks  them  good. 
I  tell  thee  that  this  £awski  is  my  bane, 
A  living  poison  rankling  'fore  mine  eyes. 

Men  prate  about  the  virtues  of  the  man. 
And  if  a  timorous  leaning  to  the  right 
From  fear  to  follow  where  the  wi-ong  directs 
Be  virtue,  then  is  he  a  paragon. 
No  wonder  we  are  deadly  foes.     To  me 
The  brightness  which  is  shed  o'er  all  his  deeds 
When  placed  in  contact  with  my  smothered  hate 
Seems  as  the  splendor  of  the  noonday  sun 
Glancing  upon  some  idol's  horrid  form, 
Making  its  rude  appearance  ruder  still. 

One  word  of  mine,  Lutuver,  might  destroy 
This  abject  snail,  who  crawling  near  my  hope 
Hath  scared  it  off.     But  I  would  have  him  live, 
And  when  he  meets  his  adorable  wife, 
When  in  th'  excess  of  'raptured  happiness 
Each  fiber  fills  with  plenitude  of  joy 
And  naught  of  bliss  is  left  to  hope  for  —  then 
At  fair  Aldona's  feet  shall  he  expire, 
And  the  full  heart  just  beating  'gainst  her  own 
Shall  yield  its  living  current  for  revenge. 
And  she  —  his  wife  —  to  whom  I  knelt  in  vain, 
Who  oft  has  said  she  courted  my  dislike, 
And  wished  I'd  hate  her: — she  shall  have  her  wish. 

[Exeunt  MINDOWE  and  LUTUVER,  as  the  curtain  falls. 
19 


290       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


GARCZYNSKI. 

STEPHEN  GARCZYNSKI,  the  imitator  and  a  great  per- 
sonal friend  of  Adam  Mickiewicz,  was  gifted  with 
marked  poetical  abilities,  but  a  long  residence  in  for- 
eign countries  had  a  great  influence  over  them.  His 
poetry  when  not  considered  from  a  national,  artistic 
standpoint,  possesses  unusual  merits.  His  fantasy 
being  full  of  feeling,  and  his  imagery  of  the  richest 
spirit,  are  the  two  greatest  characteristics  of  his  poet- 
ical creations;  but  their  German  mysticism  and  other 
outlines,  tinged  with  foreign  literature,  are  their  weak 
points.  Mickiewicz,  in  his  lectures  on  Slavonic  Liter- 
ature, places  Garczynski  in  the  front  ranks  of  Polish 
poets;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  could  maintain  the 
place  now,  because  he  died  too  young  to  compete  for 
so  high  a  place  on  the  Polish  Parnassus;  and  yet,  as  a 
poet,  he  stands  high.  His  beautiful  poem  "WacJaw's 
History  "  is  an  extensive  philosophical  creation,  but 
founded  upon  ideas  of  which  he  drank  deeply  while  in 
Germany.  It  is  a  description  of  an  individual  life  in 
many  phases  and  changes  of  all  sorts,  all  of  which 
seem  to  exert  a  great  influence  upon  his  moral  condi- 
tion; this  constitutes  about  the  whole  theme  of  the 
poem.  Here  Garczynski  reminds  one  of  Byron's 
heroes.  It  is  an  unhappy  young  man  for  whom  the 
world  has  no  longer  any  charms, —  who  amidst  riches 
and  amusements,  dying  from  grief,  looks  for  relief  and 
diversion  in  learning.  We  see  in  him  something  akin 
to  "Faust"  or  "Manfred,"  but  neither  the  unlimited 
desire  for  knowledge  nor  passions  consumes  him.  He 
does  not  chase  about  the  world  as  "  Lara  "  or  "  Cor- 


GARCZYJSTSKI.  291 

sair,"in  search  of  prey,  lust,  or  booty.  He  is  unhappy 
only  because  he  is  a  Pole;  he  is  unhappy  because  he 
does  not  see  any  moral  cause  for  the  existence  of  his 
country;  because  in  philosophy  only  he  could  find  the 
apotheosis  of  the  powers  which  destroyed  his  country. 
Besides  that,  he  wrote  war  sonnets  and  lyrics,  most  of 
which  are  replete  with  a  devoted  love  to  his  country. 

Garczynski  was  born  in  1806,  in  Great  Poland,  re- 
ceived his  first  education  at  Trzemeszno,  and  at  a 
Lyceum  at  Warsaw;  then  he  attended  the  University 
at  Berlin,  where  having  imbibed  the  philosophical  doc- 
trines of  Hegel  he  drowned  in  them  the  remnants  of 
the  faith  of  his  sires,  which  he  carried  away  with  him 
on  leaving  the  home  of  his  youth.  Traveling  in  Italy 
in  1829  he  met  Mickiewicz,  the  poet,  at  Rome,  and 
here  were  formed  between  them  ties  of  the  closest  and 
most  sincere  friendship.  Mickiewicz  warmed  up  Gar- 
czynski's  faith,  and  awakened  within  him  the  great 
inborn  powers  which  up  to  this  time  were  misdirected. 
During  the  revolution  of  1831  he  took  an  active  part 
in  national  movements.  He  was  aid-de-camp  of  Gen- 
eral Uminski,  fought  in  several  battles,  and  received 
a  golden  cross  for  bravery  and  meritorious  conduct. 
After  the  unfortunate  result  of  the  revolution  he  went 
to  Paris,  France,  and  from  there  to-  Rome,  where  he 
again  met  his  beloved  friend  Adam  Mickiewicz.  In 
his  company  he  went  to  Geneva,  Switzerland.  His 
health  beginning  to  fail  he  sought  relief  at  Avignon, 
where  he  was  taken  by  Mickiewicz  in  person.  Here, 
after  a  month's  illness,  he  died — 1833,  Mickiewicz 
closing  his  eyes. 

Garczynski's  works  were  published  in  Paris  by  Mar- 
tinet in  1860,  in  Posen  by  Mertzbach,  and  by  Brock- 
house  in  Leipsic;  also  in  the  "  Library  of  the  Polish 
Authors  "  in  1860. 


292       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

MILITARY    SONNET. 

With  signal  of  attack  each  separate  line 
Like  two  black  clouds  ere  bursts  the  thunder  peal 
Advance, —  each  moment  closer  yet  they  steal, 

Thirsty  for  blood,  the  battle's  crimson  wine. 

With  manes  outshaken  at  the  second  sign 
The  horses  snort,  glance  proudly, —  bold  with  ire, 
Strike  with  their  hoofs, —  raise  dust  with  sparks  of  fire, 

As  though  the  coming  victory  they  divine. 
March!  march!  the  third  sign  giv'n;   what  billows  rise! 
The  sea  itself  is  not  more  tempest-tost 
With  horse  and  rider; — earth  in  smoke  is  lost. 

A  clash  of  arms!  friends  mingle  in  the  host 
With  foes.     Who  conquers?  from  the  turmoil  fled, 
The  vanquished  leave  the  victors  with  the  dead! 

CONVERSATION. 

Come  here  my  girl ;  and  then  she  ran  to  me. 

Do  you  love  me?  Oh  yes,  indeed  I  do. 

As  mother? — brother?  far  more  fond  and  true; 

To  you  a  help  I  ever  wish  to  be. 

All  that  I  have,  or  will  have,  fain  would  I 

Divide  with  you  and  for  you  make  all  light. 

Ah !  when  I  .hear  the  rustling  trees  at  night, 

And  windows  rattling  as  the  breeze  sweeps  by, 

'Tis  dark,  and  I  alone  sad  vigil  keep; 

I  think  you  are  not  with  me  —  then  I  weep. 

'Tis  very  wrong,  my  child,  —  it  is  a  sin. 
Sin,  did  you  say  ?  Ah !  that  is  never  true, 
For  when  at  morn  I  do  not  mention  you 
In  prayer,  no  heavenly  joy  do  I  win 
At  eve.     I  think  of  words  you  spoke  to  me, 
And  to  myself  give  them  a  meaning  strange. 


GAECZYNSKI.  293 

I  weep,  but  am  so  happy  I  would  change 
That  moment  —  time  into  eternity, 
And  weep  forever  with  a  blissful  sense 
Of  happiness  most  pure  and  most  intense. 

'Tis  wrong,  my  child ; —  your  thoughts  had  better  rest 

On  some  one  else  —  more  fitting  it  would  seem 

God  so  ordains.     Ah !  no ;    whene'er  I  dream 

Of  Heaven,  you  are  there  among  the  blest. 

Once  said  I  to  myself  that  it  was  wrong, 

But  sweet  and  clear  as  chime  of  silver  bell 

Kind  voices  spoke  to  me:  —  Love!  love!  'Tis  tvell. 

Long  as  you  have  a  heart —  Oh  love  so  long; 

And  to  my  soul  came  joy  unknown  before, 

And  doubt  can  never  cloud  its  sunshine  more. 

Then  I  was  silent; — sank  the  sun  and  fell 
Calm  ev'ning  dim  with  shades  of  coming  night. 
My  heart  was  timid,  but  a  new  delight, 
With  some  strange  change  about  it,  wove  a  spell 
When  I  repeated  "  it  is  wrong,"  I  prest 
With  fervent  kiss  the  maiden's  lip  and  hand; 
The  rapture,  none  save  lovers  understand, 
Kindl'd  a  warmth  divine  within  my  breast, 
For  as  our  lips  in  that  warm  pressure  met 
A  star  rose  in  my  sky  that  ne'er  can  set. 


ZALESKI. 


ZALESKL  295 


ZALESKI. 

JOSEPH  BOHDAN  ZALESKI,  at  first  the  worshiper  and 
a  scholar  of  Brodzinski,  and  whom  he  also  tried  to 
imitate,  at  least  in  the  external  construction  of  his 
verse,  became  in  the  end  an  original  poet  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word.  Ukraine,  the  province  of  his  na- 
tivity, is  almost  the  sole  theme  of  his  song.  It  is  from 
her  heroic  deeds  that  he  takes  all  his  subjects,  and  from 
her  natural  wealth  all  the  embellishments  and  charms 
of  his  poetry.  Naturalness,  feeling,  and  grandeur  of 
imagery  constitute  the  inborn  music  of  his  song.  Za- 
leski  is  one  of  the  greatest  lyric  poets ;  he  possesses  an 
unusual  gift  of  poetic  vision  of  every  thought  and 
every  feeling,  which  he  skilfully  shapes,  tunes,  and 
transforms  at  his  will.  The  unrest  of  the  soul,  touch- 
ing meditations,  and  the  clothing  of  his  thoughts  with 
peculiarly  deep  mystery,  are  the  chief  characteristics 
of  his  creations.  Occasionally  he  rises  above  the 
bounds  of  the  natural  world  and  soars  in  the  ideal; 
then  again  he  descends  into  the  innate  qualities  of 
nature,  and  surrounding  himself  with  the  light  of 
reality  he  seems  to  remain  with  himself  only  in 
thoughtfulness  and  longing  as  if  awakened  from  a 
temporary  illusion  or  a  broken  spell.  His  manner  of 
writing  is  solely  his  own,  bearing  the  stamp  of  an 
incomparable  artist.  Liveliness  of  imagery,  sincerity 
of  feeling,  and  the  outward  form  of  expression,  are 
blended  in  him  in  delightful  harmony,  so  that  it  is 
difficult  to  determine  whether  he  is  a  greater  poet  or  a 
greater  musical  artist. 

Zaleski  was  born  on  the  14th  of  February,  1802,  at 


296       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

a  place  called  Bohaterka,  in  Ukraine.  His  youth  was 
spent  on  the  steppes  (prairies)  amidst  the  people  of 
that  region.  He  attended  school  in  the  city  of  Human 
from  1815  to  1819.  Humafi  is  situated  within  but  a 
short  distance  from  the  most  beautiful  garden  in  Europe, 
from  which  the  poet  Trembecki  drew  his  inspiration 
when  he  wrote  his  famous  poem  "  Sofiowka."  The 
garden  is  so  named,  and  one  would  not  go  much  amiss 
to  infer  that  the  resplendent  beauties  of  the  garden 
might  have  first  awakened  Zaleski's  poetic  genius.  It 
is  not  an  unpleasant  fact  for  the  editor  of  this  work  to 
here  record  that  he,  too,  rubbed  his  back  against  the 
walls  of  that  famous  institution,  and  remembers  well 
the  severity  of  its  rules.  He  knows  not  whether  the 
institution  is  still  in  existence,  but  at  the  time  when  he 
was  a  student  there  the  professors'  chairs  were  filled 
by  the  most  learned  and  ablest  men  of  the  order  of 
Basilians. 

In  1820  Zaleski  went  with  Severyn  Goszczyfiski  to 
Switzerland,  and  thence  to  the  University  of  Warsaw. 
Later  he  was  a  private  teacher  with  a  Mr.  Gorski  and 
the  son  of  General  Shembeck,  until  1830.  In  that 
year  he  left  Poland  and  went  to  Paris,  then  to  Italy. 
Returning  to  Paris  he  filled  the  office  of  the  Superin- 
tendent of  the  Polish  School  at  Batignolle,  where  we 
believe  he  still  resides. 

His  work  "Poetry"  was  published  by  Edward 
lelowicki  in  1841;  "Dumy  and  Dumki,"  published  by 
Raczynski  in  Posen;  "Poetry,"  at  St.  Petersburg  in 
1851.  The  Poet's  Oratorium  in  "  Dumy  and  Dumki  " 
was  dedicated  to  his  wife, —  published  at  Posen,  1866. 
No  nation  had  a  sweeter  and'  more  feeling  poet  than 
Zaleski  —  not  even  excepting  Petrarch. 


ZALESKI,  297 

THE  POET'S  SONG. 

When  Spring  unfolds  her  foliage  green, 
And  birds  their  songs  begin  to  breathe, 
My  strain,  like  theirs,  is  free  from  care; 
I  fly  above, —  descend  beneath ! 

I  fly  and  haunt  the  vanished  past, 

'Mid  tempests'  low  and  wavering  moan; — 

I  gaze  upon  the  regions  vast, 

And  listen  to  the  whirlwind's  tone! 

I  feel  the  world's  bright  aspect  'round, 
From  flowers  sweet  I  take  my  life; 
I  list  to  angels'  praising  sound, 
And  soon  forget  all  earthly  strife. 

And  if  my  heart  at  times  complains, 
In  spite  of  all  its  earthly  joys, 
I  try  to  soothe  its  bitter  pains, 
As  children  do  with  pleasing  toys. 

If  for  a  while  my  bosom  beats, 
And  trembles,  filled  with  pain  and  fear, 
My  mind  to  Heaven  then  retreats, 
And  there  dispels  each  bitter  tear. 

Thus  then  I  pass  away  my  time, 
In  joy  my  moments  quickly  glide; 
Not  fond  of  solving  mysteries, 
I  smile  at  human  thoughtless  pride. 

But  when  I  end  life's  short  career, 
And  bid  this  world  a  last  adieu, 
Another  world  again  will  cheer 
The  heart  that  seldom  sorrow  knew. 

Although  the  body  pass  from  hence, 
The  soul  immortal  shall  not  die; 
A  few  remaining  thoughts  on  earth 
May  tell  I  soared  beyond  the  sky. 


298       POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  POLAND. 

'TIS   DIFFERENT   WITH   US. 

. 

"U  nas  inaczej." 

'Tis  sad,  brethren,  sad,  beyond  -the  Danube's  tide, 
Moist  are  our  eyes,  but  our  feelings  we  must  hide; 
Irksome  is  the  world,  the  people  weary  me; 
How  strange  'mid  bustling  crowds  look  all  things  I  see! 

Here  the  Kozak's  *  spirit  must  pleasureless  roam ; 

'Tis  so  different  all  from  our  own  loved  home! 

'Tis  different  with  us!  ah,  the  Polish  land 
Is  our  mighty  queen  —  'tis  a  Slavonic  band ; 
At  a  sign  from  her,  brethren,  death  we  will  dare, 
And  ever  we'll  dream  of  Ukraine  the  fair. 

Here  the  Kozak's  spirit  must  pleasureless  roam; 

'Tis  so  different  all  from  our  loved  home ! 

'Tis  different  with  us!  blithe  and  buoyant  instead, 
Away  with  mounds  sepulchral  whose  shadows  outspread ; 
The  eagle  eye  desires  ev'ry  thing  to  see, 
Bathing  in  wild  grasses  contented  and  free ! 

Here  the  Kozak's  spirit  must  pleasureless  roam; 

'Tis  so  different  all  from  our  loved  home! 

'Tis  different  with  us !  'neath  the  dark  blue  skies 
O'erhanging  Ukraine  plaintive  songs  arise 
From  many  sweet  singers  wand'ring  far  and  near; 
0  God,  their  sad  strains  ever  deafen  the  ear! 

Here  the  Kozak's  spirit  must  pleasureless  roam; 

'Tis  so  different  all  from  our  loved  home! 

*  See  annotations  to  Malczewski.  We  can  only  add  here  that 
the  word  "  Kozak"  applies  figuratively  especially  to  those  who  were 
bora  in  Ukraine ;  hence  when  one  says  he  conies  from  "  Kozaczyzna," 
it  means  that  he  comes  from  the  land  of  the  "  Kozaks,"  that  is  to  say, 
from  "  Ukraine."  Here  the  poet,  though  a  nobleman  calls  himself  a 
Kozak,  being  born  and  brought  up  in  Ukraine. 


ZALESKI.  299 

U  NAS   INACZEJ. 
(Bohdana  Zaleskiego.) 

Smutnoz  tu  —  smutno,  bracia,  za  Dunajem, 
I  w  oczach  mokro,  bo  sercami  tajem; 
Ludzie  nas  nudzq. —  i  swiaf  caly  nudzi; 
Cudzo — och  pusto — srod  s"wiata  i  ludzi! 

Nie  ma  bo  rady  dla  duszy  kozaczej ; 

U  nas  inaczej  —  inaczej  —  inaczej ! 

U  nas  inaczej  Och!  Ojczyzna  Lasza, 
To  wszech  sJowianska  i  krolowa  nasza, 
Bracia,  zginiemy  za  ni^.,  kiedy  skinie, 
Ale  snid  b^dziem  o  swej  Ukrainie. 

Nie  ma  bo  rady  dla  duszy  kozaczej ; 

U  nas  inaczej  —  inaczej  —  inaczej ! 

U  nas  inaczej !  I  bujnie  i  milo, 
Hej !  nie  zast^puj  na  drodze  mogilo ! 
Nie  s*ciel  si$  cieniem!  niech  sokole  oko 
K^pie  w  burzanach  lubo  a  szeroko! 

Nie  ma  bo  rady  dla  duszy  kozaczej ; 

U  nas  inaczej  —  inaczej  —  inaczej ! 

U  nas  inaczej !  Po  nad  Ukrain%, 
Wskros  okolic%  jarz%c%  si£,  sin%, 
Boze  spiewaki  ci%gn^.  w  w  rozne  strony; 
Az  w  uszach  klaszcze,  taki  gwar  zm^cony! 

Nie  ma  bo  rady  dla  duszy  kozaczej ; 

U  nas  inaczej  —  inaczej  —  inaczej ! 


300       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

'Tis  different  with  us!  what  I've  secretly  planned, 
Or  in  Duma  sing,  my  horse  can  understand ; 
He  neighs  in  his  way;  of  his  tabun  *  thinks  he? 
Ah,  he  and  I  are  twins,  both  yearning  to  be  free! 

Here  the  Kozak's  spirit  must  pleasureless  roam; 

'Tis  so  different  all  from  our  own  loved  home! 

'Tis  different  with  us!  sad  notes  e'er  are  sung, 
Because  'tis  sepulchral,  and  the  graves  among; 
They  breathe  the  spirit  of  our  great  sires  and  praise 
Glories  and  victories  of  their  olden  days! 

Here  the  Kozak's  spirit  must  pleasureless  roam ; 

'Tis  so  different  all  from  our  own  loved  home ! 

'Tis  different  with  us !  far  more  glad  and  gay, 
Lively  beats  the  heart;  pour  out  no  wine  I  pray! 
Intoxication  seems  the  air  itself  to  fill ; 
When  I  wish  to  carouse  I  shall  with  a  will! 

Here  the  Kozak's  spirit  must  pleasureless  roam; 

'Tis  so  different  all  from  our  own  loved  home! 

'Tis  different  with  us!  love  and  longing  here 
As  two  strands  of  the  thread  of  this  life  appear. 
With  tears,  0  God,  I  entreat  a  boon  of  Thee, 
That  in  Heaven  Thou'll  give  Ukraine  to  me! 

Here  the  Kozak's  spirit  must  pleasureless  roam; 

'Tis  so  different  all  fi-om  our  own  loved  home! 

*  A  herd  of  wild  horses. 


ZALESKI.  301 

U  nas  inaczej  Co  zaSpiewam  w  dumie, 
Co  w  glowie  knowam  —  brat  kon  moj  rozumie ; 
Rzy  po  swojemu: — czy  tabun  pami^ta? 
Och!  za  wolnosci%  t^sknimy  blizni^ta! 

Nie  ma  bo  rady  dla  duszy  kozaczej ; 

U  nas  inaczej  —  inaczej  —  inaczej ! 

U  nas  inaczej !  Wci^z  nuta  zaloby, 
Bo  namogilna,  bo  pomiedzy  groby 
Ku  duchom  ojcow  przygrywa  wspaniale 
0  ich  minionych  i  bojach  i  chwale: 

Nie  ma  bo  rady  dla  duszy  kozaczej ; 

U  nas  inaczej  —  inaczej  —  inaczej ! 

U  nas  inaczej !  JakoS  Izej  weselej, 
Krew  gra  burzliwiej: — oj  wina  mi  nie  lej! 
Samem  powietrzem  po  pianemu 
A  kiedy  hulam — to  na  teb,  na 

Nie  ma  bo  rady  dla  duszy  kozaczej ; 

U  nas  inaczej  —  inaczej  —  inaczej ! 

U  nas  inaczej !  Milosd  i  t^sknota, 
To  jak  dwie  prz^dki  naszego  zywota. 
Bozez  moj,  Boze!  Izami  rnodl^  Ciebie! 
Jak  umr^,  daj  mi  Ukrain^  —  w  niebie! 

Nie  ma  bo  rady  dla  duszy  kozaczej ; 

U  nas  inaczej  —  inaczej  —  inaczej ! 


302  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

TO   MY  GUITAR. 

Thou  dear  companion  of  my  spring, 
My  soul  confides  its  grief  to  thee ;  — 

Let  the  sad  plainings  of  each  string 
Drown  all  rny  sighs  melodiously. 

And  let  thy  murmurs,  joined  with  mine, 
A  soothing  as  of  dreams  impart, 

While  from  these  walls  at  day's  decline, 
Their  notes  rebounding  thrill  my  heart. 

Sweetly  intoxicate  each  sense, 

Chase  from  my  eyes  this  mist  of  pain; — 

From  earth's  cold  desert  bear  me  hence, 
My  only  solace!  on  thy  strain. 

Through  all  my  sad  and  vanished  years 
Few  happy  hours  to  me  were  known ; 

Hope's  longing  only  joined  to  fears 
And  disappointment  were  my  own. 

One  moment  comes, —  another  goes, 

My  years  like  autumn  leaves  grow  dry;— 

When  will  this  pilgrim  journey  close  — 
This  exile  and  an  end  draw  nigh? 

I  do  not  dread  Eternity; 

Death  in  my  soul  awakes  no  fear: — 
There  wait  the  golden  days  for  me, 

Which  I  have  sought  so  vainly  here. 

Companion  of  my  life's  sad  spring, 
My  soul  confides  it's  grief  to  thee; — 

Let  the  low  plaining  from  thy  string 
Drown  all  my  sighs  melodiously. 


.fACHOWICZ.  303 


JACHOWICZ. 

STANISLAUS  JACHOWICZ  was  born  at  Dzikow,  in  Ga- 
licia,  17th  of  April,  1796.  His  father  (who  was  a 
plenipotentiary  of  Count  Tarnowski)  died  when  Stan- 
islaus was  but  a  child;  but  his  pious  mother  took  great 
care  in  his  education.  The  boy  exhibited  excellent 
qualities  of  heart  and  mind  from  his  very  childhood; 
no  punishment  was  ever  resorted  to  in  bringing  up  the 
lad;  an  appeal  from  the  mother  to  her  son's  heart 
sufficed  in  every  instance.  He  went  to  the  gymnasium 
at  Stanislawow,  where  he  was  always  the  first  among 
the  scholars  in  learning  and  deportment,  and  afterward 
attended  the  Faculty  of  Philosophy  in  the  University 
of  Lemberg  from  1815  to  1818.  The  celebrated  Pro- 
fessor Maas  prized  him  very  highly,  and  corresponded 
with  him.  In  the  latter  part  of  1818  he  went  to  War- 
saw, where  he  entered  in  an  official  capacity  the  depart- 
ment of  Procurator-General  of  the  Kingdom  of  Poland. 
It  was  here  that  he  became  acquainted  with  the  poet 
Brodzinski.  But  the  duties  of  an  official  life  had  no 
charms  for  him;  the  bent  of  his  mind  led  him  alto- 
gether in  a  different  direction;  he  soon  gave  himself  up 
to  the  occupation  of  a  private  teacher.  His  first  fables 
were  published  at  Plock  in  1824.  Five  of  his  smaller 
works  passed  through  two  editions;  one  passed  through 
three,  and  his  fables  through  six,  different  editions. 
Then  came  the  publication  of  "  Thoughts  in  Regard 
How  to  Gain  a  Correct  Knowledge  of  the  Foundations  of 
the  Polish  Language  "  —Warsaw,  1828.  Jachowicz  left 
in  manuscript  "  Sketches  of  Polish  History,"  in  verse; 
also  a  spelling-book,  copiously  illustrated  with  wood-cuts. 


304       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

All  who  knew  lachowicz  personally  testify  to  the 
nobleness  of  his  nature,  and  to  his  great  friendship  of 
children;  and  so  long  as  the  little  rising  generation  will 
speak  the  language  of  their  grandmothers  they  will 
carry  his  name  to  the  remotest  posterity.  His  fables 
and  proverbs  can  be  found  in  almost  every  house  in 
Poland.  The  last  edition  of  his  works  was  published 
in  Warsaw  in  four  volumes — 1848.  Besides  these  he 
published  a  new  collection  entitled  "A  Hundred  New 
Stories  "  — Warsaw,  1853.  The  substance  of  his  fables 
is  an  invention  adapted  for  the  understanding  and  the 
necessities  of  children.  In  these  little  stories  we  find 
the  children's  world  dramatized;  their  subjects  do  not 
touch  the  concerns  of  grown  people,  or  any  intricate 
relations  of  life;  they  simply  concern  the  relations  of 
children,  their  little  adventures,  contacts,  and  relations 
with  their  parents,  society,  etc.  The  author  endeavors 
to  imbue  the  little  folks  with  virtues  of  religion  and 
pleasing  shadings  of  their  e very-day  situations.  He 
pursues  their  little  shortcomings  and  their  little  foibles 
in  the  same  good-natured  way  and  degree  of  childish- 
ness ;  the  form,  too,  in  which  they  are  written  possesses 
also  its  peculiarly  interesting  manner.  Jachowicz 
understood  that  the  essence  of  a  fable  is  not  an  alle- 
gory, but  an  example,  and  that  allegorical  examples 
are  not  practical  for  children;  for  a  child  there  is  no 
better  example  than  to  show  it  the  doings  of  another 
child.  Jachowicz  also  comprehended  the  truth  that  the 
heroes  of  his  stories  were  not  animals  or  trees,  but 
children.  His  manner  of  telling  things  is  so  easy  and 
lucid  that  every  child  can  understand  him  without  any 
trouble,  although  sometimes  he  moralizes  too  long. 
He  died  in  Warsaw  the  24th  of  December,  185T. 


JACHOWICZ.  305 


SUNSET. 

The  sun  went  down,  with  it  one  more  day  has  passed  away; — 
The  church-bell  heralded  its  death  through  the  twilight  grey: 
To-morrow,  at  the  same  time  and  hour,  with  bell-tones  clear, 
Another  day  shall  disappear ; 
And  after  that  a  third,  and  so 
Our  whole  life  day  by  day  shall  go 

An  old  man  thought, — up  and  down  he  paced  with  feeble  tread. 
What  does  the  old  man  mutter?  the  thoughtless  children  said. 

THE  OLD  MAN. 

Gaily  with  your  pastimes  you  amuse  yourselves  to-day, 
But  your  life  is  fleeting  imperceptibly  away. 
See  you  the  sunset,  children  fair? 
Only  look!  see  over  there: 
The  clouds  with  red  and  gold  inwrought, — 
Their  play  a  moment  was  forgot. 
And  while  they  looked  with  earnestness 
The  old  man  spoke  of  sinfulness 
Repentance  and  a  saving  grace, 
How  swiftly  day  to  day  gives  place ; 
And  of  the  vanities  of  earth, 
They  understood  not  then  its  worth. 
In  riper  years  alone  their  might 
The  sunset  shone  upon  their  sight. 

They  thought  of  what  the  old  man  said  many  years  ago, 
And  finer  feelings  filled  their  hearts  all  with  a  holy  glow. 
The  world's  snares  deceived  them  no  more, 
Love  of  wealth  and  glory  was  o'er; 
Flown  away  as  if  with  the  wind, 
And  if  for  earthly  joys  they  pined 
The  old  man's  sunset  crossed  their  mind. 
20 


306  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 


THE   LITTLE   ORPHAN. 

Mother!  but  speak,  dispel  my  dread, — 
'Tis  your  own  daughter,  hear  her  plea; 

I  kneel  and  weep  beside  your  bed, — 
Awake  and  say  a  word  to  me! 

Mother !  the  hands  my  lips  have  pressed 
Are  cold  as  ice.     Oh,  for  God's  sake 

No  longer  in  this  coffin  rest; 
Open  your  eyes,  mother,  awake! 

I  cannot  think  you  will  not  rise, 
They  say  you  will  waken  never; 

0  mamma  dear,  open  your  eyes, 
Don't  you  love  me  well  as  ever? 

Arise,  arise,  from  that  white  bed, 

It  looks  as  if  it  were  a  tomb, 
And  press  me  to  your  breast  instead, 

My  heart  will  break  within  this  gloom! 

Ah,  you  keep  still,  my  mother  dear, 
You  wish  me  all  alone  to  stay; 

Must  I  be  left  an  orphan  here, 

Torn  from  my  mother's  arms  for  aye? 

1  have  never  been  away  from  you, 

Oh,  may  I  never,  never  be; 
But  to  the  grave  let  me  go,  too, 
Can  you  seek  Heaven  without  me? 

You  are  so  good,  mother,  I  plead 
That  you  will  look  on  me  with  love, 

And  with  the  good  Lord  intercede 
To  join  us  in  his  home  above! 


JACHOWICZ.  307 

MOTHER'S   WARNING. 

My  son,  said  a  mother,  if  you  would  be  my  delight, 

From  thy  soul's  depths  love  truth  and  right; 
Teach  your  heart  to  loathe  deeply  every  form  of  wrong, 

Shun  evil  when  alone  as  when  'mid  a  watchful  throng. 
The  youth  promised  his  mother,  and  in  his  eye  shone  clear 

The  light  of  truth  —  she  knew  that  his  promise  was  sincere. 
In  a  few  days  thereafter  it  happened  on  his  way 

The  youth  passed  a  neighbor's  garden  filled  with  blossoms 

gay 

Just  at  that  time  of  summer  when  fragrant  buds  disclose 

In  its  charming  beauty  the  queen  of  flowers,  the  rose, 
To  reach  and  pluck  the  fairest  the  eager  youth  essayed, 

When  something  whispered  him  of  the  promise  he  had 

made. 

His  hand  dropped  —  he  paused  to  think  —  he  listened  to  the 
voice, 

A  future  life  of  right  or  wrong  waited  on  his  choice. 
But  another  voice  said:  what  does  one  rose  signify? 

The  owner  will  forgive  it,  no  harm  therein  can  lie, 
If  you  leave  them  as  they  are  their  hours  of  bloom  are  few; 

Reach  and  pluck  one,  you  shall  take  a  sweet  rose  home  with 

you. 
No  one  will  reprove  you;  there  are  plenty,  take  your  choice; 

And  he  almost  believed  for  a  time  that  evil  voice. 
Your  promise  to  your  mother, — 'twas  his  heart's  voice  he  heard, 

He  who  is  good  and  honest  will  never  break  his  word. 
He  resisted  the  temptation,  the  flowers  untouched  remained, 

He  heard  his  mother's  warning,  and  a  victory  was  gained! 

THE  LITTLE   JEWESS. 

A  little  Jewish  girl,  pale  and  thin,  in  humble  guise, 
Was  walking,  with  her  hands  covering  her  eyes, 
When  a  lady  from  her  window  marked  her  feeble  tread, 
And  sent  her  maid  to  her  with  a  piece  of  bread. 


308       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Thus  having  done  her  duty  she  felt  much  happiness. 
What  is  more  pleasant  than  easing  the  distress 
Of  the  poor  orphan?     But  out  of  breath  the  maid  came  back. 
"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  my  mistress  dear, —  alack! 
That  is  a  Jewish  girl;  —  who  e'er  thought  to  help  a  Jew?" 

The  good  lady  was  offended.     "  Shame  on  you! 

She  is  poor,  and  therefore  she  deserves  our  aid,"  she  said; 
"  Go  forthwith,  I  bid  you,  give  to  her  the  bread. 

She  is  a  fellow  creature;  — the  creeds  don't  signify;  — 

The  sun  shines  upon  us  all, —  impartially." 

THE   WIDOW'S   MITE. 

A  money-box  was  fastened  up  in  a  public  place, 

And  many  with  indiff'rence  as  they  passed  apace 

Bead  "Offering  for  the  Poor;"  thereon  they  turned  away 

Without  putting  in  a  penny  for  many  a  day. 

It  stood  quite  empty,  till  at  last 

A  poor  woman  dropped  her  mite,  a  penny,  as  she  passed. 

Next,  seeing  her,  a  rich  man  stopped, 

Who  some  ducats  dropped. 

The  less  wealthy,  moved  by  the  sight,  added  to  the  store 

Each  a  florin  more. 

Another  one,  who  had  seen  the  widow  give  her  mite, 

Dropped  a  dollar  bright. 

Whence  comes  this  liberality, —  this  golden  shower? 

'Tis  the  example  of  the  good.     It  is  virtue's  power 

That  brings  the  penny  shining  gold. 

Perhaps  to  this  hour  time  had  rolled, 

And  the  money-box,  now  burdened,  remained  empty  quite 
Had  not  the  poor  and  humble  widow  given  her  mite. 
Good  example  works  wonders  for  the  right' 


KORZENIOWSKI.  309 


KORZENIOWSKI. 

JOSEPH  KORZENIOWSKI,  at  the  beginning  of  his  career, 
was  a  poet  of  purely  classic  character,  but  when  the 
inspiration  of  new  ideas  came  upon  him  he  was  regen- 
erated in  the  spirit.  Still  this  awakening  was  not  spon- 
taneous, but  was  caused  by  side  influences,  and  it  was 
doubtless  for  this  reason  that  his  own  influence  on  the 
Polish  literature,  at  the  beginning  of  this  change,  was 
so  inconsiderable.  He  was  one  of  the  young  poets 
who  began  to  write -originally  for  the  stage.  He  shifted, 
however,  from  classic  tragedy  to  a  new  style  of  dramas, 
in  which  he  imitated  Shakspeare.  His  classic  trag- 
edy bears  the  name  of  "Pelopids,"  but  his  "Clara" 
and  "Angelique,"  written  in  measured  rhyme,  are  of  a 
different  cut.  "The  Carpathian  Mountaineers"  is  a 
drama  which  is  considered  a  masterpiece  in  Polish  lit- 
erature. The  same  merit  claims  "  The  Monk,"  telling 
of  a  life  of  temptation  and  the  death  of  Boleslas  the 
Bold.  But  perhaps  still  greater  is  his  historical  drama, 
"Andrew  Batory,"  where,  for  the  first  time,  Korzen- 
iowski  endeavored  to  awaken  the  remote  past  and  en- 
rich the  literature  of  his  country  with  an  historical  play, 
and  in  this  difficult  task  he  came  out  victorious.  He 
delineated  in  a  masterly  manner  all  the  characters  of 
the  drama  with  great  historical  truth,  with  which  he 
embellished  this  remarkable  production. 

In  the  comedy  "The  Jews"  the  poet  shows  unmis- 
takably that  he  is  well  experienced  in  the  ways  of  the 
world  and  a  superior  judge  of  the  human  heart.  He  is 
the  first,  too,  who  showed  what  significance  comedy 
had  in  a  social  point  of  view.  In  his  comedy  "The 


310  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Moustache  and  the  Wig"  old  Polish  types  stand  in 
bold  relief  alongside  of  Frenchified  ways  of  the  times 
of  Stanislaus  Augustus. 

Although  Korzeniowski  is  a  perfect  master  of  the 
language  in  all  his  pieces,  he  evinces  great  carelessness 
in  interesting  his  reader  or  spectator.  In  the  old  dia- 
logues of  the  prologue  it  was  announced  at  the  begin- 
ning what  the  subject  of  the  play  would  be;  so  it  is 
with  Korzeniowski.  He  tells  us  in  advance  what  will 
be  the  text  of  the  drama,  weakening  thereby  the  inter- 
est of  the  play;  and  unmindful  about  carrying  out  the 
intrigue  he  loses  the  power  of  the  comic.  On  that  ac- 
count he  is  placed  below  Fredro,*  but  his  lyric  poetry 
belongs  to  the  first  class. 

Korzeniowski  was  born  in  1797,  in  Galicia,  and  was 
educated  at  Czernovitz,  and  then  at  Krzemieniec. 
After  finishing  his  studies  he  went  to  "Warsaw,  where 
he  accepted  a  situation  as  a  private  teacher,  offered  him 
by  Gen.  Vincent  Krasinski,  and  later  he  obtained  a 
position  as  librarian  in  the  great  library  of  Count 
Zamoyski.  In  1823  he  was  called  to  the  professorship 
of  Polish  literature  at  Krzemieniec,  where  he  lectured 
till  1830.  The  year  after  he  entered  the  cathedra  of 
literature  and  Roman  antiquities  at  the  University  of 
Kiev,  and  in  1836  of  Polish  literature,  where  he  lec- 
tured only  a  few  months,  the  cathedra  being  abolished. 
In  1837  he  was  one  of  the  directors  of  the  Universit}' 
of  Charkow,  and  in  1846  was  appointed  the  director  of 
the  state  gymnasium  at  Warsaw.  He  then  was  hon- 
ored with  the  dignity  of  the  office  of  Visitator  of  schools 
and  colleges,  and  still  later  was  made  a  commissioner 
of  creeds  and  instruction.  While  occupying  this  im- 
portant office  he  was  greatly  influential  in  the  arrange- 
*A  distinguished  Polish  dramatist. 


KORZENTOWSKL  311 

ment  of  plans  for  the  chief  school  at  Warsaw.  In  1862, 
suffering  from  ill  health,  he  journeyed  to -a  Bohemian 
water-cure,  but  that  availed  him  not,  and  he  died  at 
Dresden  in  1863. 

His  dramas  were  for  the  first  time  published  at  Poc- 
zajow,  in  1826;  "The  Carpathian  Mountaineers"  at 
Wilno,  1843;  "The  Monk"  at  Warsaw,  1830;  it  was 
translated  into  Hebrew  by  Julian  Klaczko;  "Andrew 
Batory,"  Warsaw,  1846;  "The  Jews,"  Wilno,  1843. 

THE   LAST   LABOR. 
(DUMA.) 

Through  thicket  and  through  brush  and  field 
Traveled  a  man  whose  form  revealed 
The  weight  of  years.     His  eyes  anon. 
Fell  on  the  staff  he  leaned  upon. 
Slowly  he  walked  —  his  native  strength 
Trouble  and  age  had  sapped  at  length 
With  many  deep  and  cruel  wounds 
Gained  on  forgotten  battle-grounds. 

Every  day  he  this  path  would  trace, 
On  his  shoulder  bearing  a  spade. 
In  the  graveyard,  resting  a  space, 
To  dig  a  grave  he  then  assayed., 
Till,  weary  with  his  work,  at  length 
Again  he  rested  in  the  shade 
And  at  his  feet  he  placed  the  spade. 
Once  refreshing  his  wasted  strength, 
He  thus  reposed  with  his  dim  eyes 
Resting  heavenward  on  the  skies, 
As  if  he  sought  throughout  the  space 
The  bright  shades  of  his  past  to  trace, 
The  pleasures  of  his  by-gone  days 
That  never  more  shall  meet  his  gaze. 


312       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Filled  with  emotion  as  he  thought, 
His  faint  and  trembling  voice  awoke, 
Called  back  the  past  with  mem'ry  fraught, 
And  thus  unto  himself  he  spoke: 

Evening's  hush  the  valleys  keep, 
The  sun  descends  behind  the  hill; 
O'er  the  grass  the  dew-drops  creep, 
The  fragrant  wind  sighs  soft  and  still, 
While  utter  silence  reigns  alone. 
No  stir  about;  all  life  seems  past 
Save  that  my  heart,  so  weary  grown, 
Beats,  oh!  so  loudly,  and  so  fast! 
The  spell  of  utter  silence  round 
Most  grave  and  solemn  thoughts  recall. 
Here  is  the  inevitable  bound! 
This  is  .the  heritage  of  all ! 
For  all  the  roads  are  leading  here, 
And  wafted  on  their  wings  we  come. 
Every  earthly  hope  and  fear 
Endeth  here  their  weary  sum. 
Entrance  'tis  to  the  spirit  home, 
Welcome  resting  place  for  mortals, 
I  would  gladly  pass  its  portals, 
Never  more  to  toil  and  roam. 

Willingly  would  I  meet  the  change  — 

Happily  lie  upon  thy  breast, 

Not  feeling  that  the  land  is  strange, 

But  as  I  were  at  home  and  rest. 

I  have  lived  through  many  a  year, 

Have  seen  on  earth  much  change  and  gloom; 

Relations,  brothers,  friends  so  dear, 

Are  sleeping  in  the  silent  tomb. 

My  voice,  that  sleep  can  never  wake, 

But  through  the  gloom  this  thought  steals  o'er, 

Life's  billows  bearing  me  shall  break, 


KORZENIOWSKI.  313 

And  cast  me  on  the  unknown  shore. 
My  hold  upon  the  earth  is  weak, 
My  sunset  rays  so  dimly  blend, 
A  few  more  tears  upon  my  cheek, 
A  few  more  sighs,  and  then  the  —  end-! 

All  the  phantoms  of  younger  days, 
And  all  delusions  of  the  heart, 
Pleasures  of  glory,  love's  sweet  ways, 
Like  sounds  of  yesterday  depart. 
Long  lines  of  years  have  disappeared 
Like  a  cloud  scattered  by  the  blast, 
Troubles  that  vexed,  pleasures  that  cheered, 
All  come  to  nothing  at  the  last. 
Few  the  memories  that  we  gain 
From  such  a  harvest  large  and  full  — 
From  the  abundance  there  remain 
Few  roses  mid  the  thorns  to  pull. 

All  was  silent.     He  ceased  so  speak, 
And  with  tears  on  his  pallid  cheek 
Rose  to  his  feet,  and  tremblingly 
Began  to  dig  his  grave  once  more, 
Till,  growing  weary  as  before, 
Reposed  again  beneath  the  tree, 
With  the  spade  lying  at  his  feet. 
Thus  toiled  and  rested  he  each  day, 
When  shades  of  night  the  sunset  meet, 
And  o'er  the  world  in  darkness  lay 
His  last  rude  shelter  in  the  land 
He  dug  with  his  own  trembling  hand. . 
Thus  in  the  graveyard  he  was  found, 
His  head  uplifted  from  the  ground, 
His  eyes  in  his  last  sleep  composed 
And  his  blue  lips  were  tightly  closed. 
Still  was  his  voice  —  at  rest  each  limb  — 
And  his  grave  was  —  ready  for  him. 


314  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 


WASILEWSKT. 

EDMUND  WASILEWSKI  was  a  poet  of  the  heart.  He 
seemed  to  prefer  being  shut-  up  within  himself  to  ex- 
ternal glistening.  He  appeared  to  suffer  mental  pain, 
and  whenever  he  smiled  his  smile  seemed  to  mingle 
with  yearning  and  grief.  His  faith  and  his  prophetic 
ken  seemed  wavering  and  uncertain.  Edmund's  world 
and  life  were  painted  in  dark  and  somber  colors. 
Although  his  poetry  sprung  from  the  purest  sources, 
yet  it  was  oftentimes  permeated  with  bitterness.  Per- 
sonal disappointments  made  him  at  times  cold  and 
indifferent  as  to  his  fate.  He  began  to  doubt  about 
any  happiness  being  in  this  world,  so  that  even  if  he 
saw  a  bright  beam  of  it  to  him  it  was  but  a  piece  of 
rotten  wood  glistening  in  the  dark,  without  possessing 
any  real  light  or  warmth. 

The  collection  of  his  poetry  represents  three  differ- 
ent turns  or  kinds — egotistic,  popular,  and  social, — with 
an  occasional  touch  of  historical  coloring.  His  burn- 
ing soul  loved  to  pour  out,  in  short  lyrics  and  in  son- 
nets, all  his  dreamings,  his  reveries,  and  his  frenzy. 
"The  Child  of  Frenzy  "is  his  confession  before  the 
world,  where  in  painful  strains  he  sings  the  history  of 
his  life.  Pure  but  unhappy  love  is  the  reigning  theme 
extending  throughout  many  tropes.  Now  and  then  it 
connects  itself  with  observations  about  the  world  and 
peoples,  and  then  again  he  complains  with  "Werther, — 
then  philosophizing  in  the  Childe-Harold  style. 
Such  erotic  feeling  needs  a  highly  creative  individual- 
ism to  express  in  the  usual  way  the  feelings  of  an 
enamored  heart,  and  at  the  same  time  to  impart  to  them 


WASILEWSKI.  315 

the  witching  tone  of  poesy.     Such  is  his  "  Dream!  O 
My  Soul,  Dream!" 

Wasilewski  is  altogether  a  different  man  when  he 
forgets  his  troubles  and  looks  upon  the  surrounding 
objects  with  a  pleasant  eye  and  good  humor,  when  he 
seeks  a  subject  to  which  he  could  grow  with  his  heart. 
Such  a  subject  he  found  in  the  Cracovian  people.  The 
poet  looked  into  their  life,  their  customs,  and  their 
manners,  and  their  native  character;  he  heard  their 
songs  and  was  permeated  with  them  through  and 
through,  began  to  love  them  and  wrought  a  beautful 
wreath  for  them  in  his  collections — "The  Cracovians." 
Far  from  his  own  personal  fancy,  which  other  poets 
would  have  tried  to  put  into  the  people's  conceits,  he 
was  on  the  contrary  not  only  a  faithful  but  also  an 
ideal  interpreter  of  their  feelings  in  their  different  and 
most  minute  shades.  His  "  Cracovians  "  are  so  purely 
natural  that  you  can  see  them  in  their  huts  and  houses 
just  as  they  are,  only  the  description  is  embellished  by 
a  beautiful  diction.  "The  Mariner's  Song  "depicts 
different  phases  of  life  with  uncommon  tenderness. 
His  "  Cathedral  on  the  "Wawel  "  is  truly  worthy  of  the 
author.  This  mountain,  around  which  are  collected  so 
many  recollections  of  the  past  and  so  many  souvenirs 
of  national  life,  is  to  our  poet  an  Olympus  or  a  Hebron; 
—  in  a  word  the  central  point  of  the  world;  he  turns  to 
it  continually,  for  there  he  sees  every  foot-path,  every 
bnsh,  every  relic,  brings  to  his  mind  a  thousand  pleas- 
ing visions,  and  as  Wasilewski  is  on  the  field  of  pop- 
ular poetry  so  is  he  here  a  true  poet.  He  exercised  but 
little  care  as  to  the  outward  smoothness  of  his  verse; 
being  driven  by  the  warmest  current  of  feeling  he 
wrote  whatever  came  to  his  mind  without  stopping, 
giving  slight  heed  to  minor  objects.  In  his  "  Cathe- 


316  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

clral  on  Wawel  "  no  art  is  visible  but  the  ardent  feeling 
of  truthfulness.  Thoughts  that  led  him  on  in  this 
poem  pervade  all  other  of  his  labors,  for  they  were  his 
inseparable  domestic  idols.  He  worshiped  them  with 
a  faith  and  devotedness  that  cost  him  his  life. 

Wasilewski  was  born  on  the  16th  day  of  November, 
1814.  While  a  child  he  came  with  his  parents  to  Cra- 
cow, and  it  was  here  that  he  was  brought  up  and  edu- 
cated. After  finishing  his  collegiate  education  he 
accepted  the  situation  as  a  librarian  offered  him  by 
Wielkopolski  in  the  Kingdom  of  Poland;  but  after  a 
lapse  of  one  year  he  returned  to  Cracow,  where  he 
seems  to  have  been  persecuted  by  a  relentless  fate,  and 
had  to  labor  hard  to  support  those  dependent  upon 
him.  In  1844  he  was  married  to  his  beloved  and 
much  sung  "  Helka  "  (Helen).  God  had  given  them 
a  son,  but  he  soon  took  the  child  away  from  them. 
Edmund  was  twice  attacked  by  mortal  sickness,  but  on 
the  third  attack  he  succumbed  and  gave  his  spirit  up 
to  God,  November  14,  1846. 

A  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  at  Cracow, 
1839;  at  Posen,  1849;  again  at  Cracow,  1849,  and  at 
Warsaw,  1859.  "Cathedral  on  Wawel"  was  pub- 
lished separately  in  1840. 


UPON  THE  ROCKY  SHORE. 

Upon  the  lonely,  rocky  shore 
An  old  man  walketh  to  and  fro, 

His  head  is  bent  'neath  tresses  hoar, 
His  heart  is  heavy  with  its  woe. 

With  eyes  uplifted  to  the  sky 

And  gray  locks  to  the  breezes  tossed, 


WASILEWSKI.  317 

He  calls  his  children.     None  reply 
To  him;  they  are  forever  lost! 

0  lonely  is  the  castle  old, 

And  lonelier  still  his  aged  breast, 

For  life  is  drear  to  him,  and  cold, 

Spent  thus  from  those  he  loveth  best. 

Upon  their  names  he  fondly  calls; 

For  them  he  weeps,  alas!  in  vain; 
Brave  children !  to  their  father's  halls 

They  never  more  return  again! 

MEMORY'S  TEAR. 

Do  you  know  the  tear,  lady, —  the  sweetest  tear  on  earth, 
Which  remembrance  e'er  forces  from  the  "heart  into  view, 
Which  one  pours  out  in  silence  or  deeply  hides  at  birth, 
For  memory  of  native  land  or  friends  tried  and  true, 
Which  tenderness  must  shed  be  we  bashful  or  severe, 
'Tis  the  tear  above  all  others  —  it  is  memory's  tear. 

Do  you  know  the  reveries, —  the  meditations  sad 
Which  carry  us  at  will  to  the  future  or  the  past? 
Do  you  know  the  power  that  makes  that  sorrow  glad, 
As  your  thoughts  flow  backward  or  coming  time  forecast? 
Like  the  faithful  ivy-green  winding  the  ruins  'round 
'Mid  thoughts  of  future  time  and  past  these  memories'  dreams 
are  found. 


318       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


JASKOWSKI. 

.JOHN  NEPOMUCEN  JASKOWSKI.  We  regret  that  we 
cannot  furnish  to  our  readers  anything  definite  about 
this  poet's  life.  We  only  know  that  he  was  an  elegant 
writer  of  ballads,  elegies,  and  dithyrambics.  One  of 
his  ballads,  which  is  given  below,  is  a  specimen  of  the 
naturalness  of  his  style;  as  to  its  application  to  our 
own  times,  the  reader  may  form  his  own  conception. 

A  TALE. 

One  Sunday,  at  eventide, 

The  old  village  church  beside, 
An  old  man  'stood  and  slowly  tolled  the  bell, 

When  a  man,  young  and  unknown, 

With  grey  dust  all  his  clothes  o'erblown, 
In  wonder  list'ning  to  the  solemn  knell, 

Paused  to  bashfully  inquire: 

"  From  this  village,  age"d  sire, 
Who  takes  thus  solemnly  his  last  adieu?" 

"  Though  the  circumstance  is  sad, 

Since  you  are  curious,  lad, 
Listen,  and  I'll  tell  the  tale  to  you. 

"  There  lived  with  us,  years  ago, 

In  this  village,  you  must  know, 
A  peasant.     Wealth  he'd  honestly  acquired; 

His  board  was  amply  spread, 

Never  lacking  salt  nor  bread; 
He  was  happy,  much  beloved,  and  admired. 

"  In  the  household  three  there  were: 
His  good  wife  and  himself,  sir, 


JASKOWSKI.  319 

Were  two;  an  only  son  made  up  the  three, — 

A  bright,  rosy,  cheerful  lad, 

He  was  always  finely  clad, 
As  wealthy  farmers'  sons  are  wont  to  be. 

"  One  eve  the  father  came 

From  a  house  of  noble  name, 
And  said  to  his  wife,  as  deeply  he  sighed: 
'  My  God !  what  a  change  is  this 
From  the  mansion's  stateliness; 
A  peasant's  hut  is  pitiful  beside. 

"  'A  commoner  among  those 

Of  whom  each  one  something  knows, 

Am  I  here.     It  does  nothing  signify. 
God  has  given  us  a  son; 
Why,  then,  may  he  not  be  one, 

I  ask  you,  of  the  nobles,  great  and  high. 

"  '  For  two  oxen  we  can  sell. — 

He  shall  go  to  school,  learn  well; 
And  who  can  say  what  he  may  be  in  time? 

He  might  even  get  a  place 

At  the  manor,  by  his  grace, 
Or  to  a  preacher's  office  he  might  climb.' 

"And  they  did  accordingly; 

But  they  erred  most  terribly, 
For  happiness  from  farm  life  may  outgrow. 

Learning  in  itself  is  good, 

But  whoever  seeks  it  should 
Seek  it  not  from  pride,  sir.     Is  that  not  so? 

"  Every  year  more  and  more 

Lessened  still  the  farmer's  store; 
The  grain  went,  and  the  stock  its  number  lacked. 

While  the  son  in  learning  grew 

His  false  pride  was  growing  too, 
And  this  was  for  his  pai-ents  a  sad  fact. 


320  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

"  So  year  after  year  was  gone, 

And  no  one,  as  time  went  on, 
Saw  him  in  his  old  home;  and  they  began 

'Bound  to  whisper,  on  the  sly, 

That  he  in  a  city  nigh 
Was  playing  the  r61e  of  a  gentleman. 

"  No  priest;  on  the  other  side, 
He  was  vain  and  puffed  with  pride, 

Ashamed  that  his  father's  clothes  homespun  were. 
God  sends  on  him  judgment  dire 
Who  regards  with  scorn  his  sire.— 

Is't  not  so? — What's  the  matter  with  you,  sir? 

"  In  the  meantime,  as  they  say, 
Through  the  window  and  doorway 

Into  the  cottage  did  poverty  stare; 
Taking  wings,  the  riches  flew, 
While  the  old  folks  older  grew, 

And  no  assistance  came  from  anywhere. 

"  Though  the  old  man's  fertile  field 

In  his  youth  gave  ample  yield, 
Through  it  since  had  the  tares  and  cockles  crept. 

So  his  need  was  often  great, 

And,  bewailing  the  sad  fate 
Of  himself  and  son,  oft  the  poor  man  wept. 

"  Till,  unhappy,  tired,  and  worn, 

With  affliction  overborne, 
He  fell  in  the  field,  prostrate,  by  his  plow, — 

He  fell,  never  more  to  rise; 

There  were  none  to  close  his  eyes ;  — 
Why  is  this,  young  man?     You  are  weeping  now! 

"  But  the  tale  is  not  yet  told. 
There  was  left  the  mother  old, — 


JASKOWSKL  321 

Yes,  she  remained,  entirely  bereft, 

Woe  to  ev'ry  one  thus  thrown 

On  the  dreary  world  alone, 
And  greatest  woe  when  a  woman  is  left. 

"  She  requested  one  to  write 

To  her  son  of  her  sad  plight: 
'  My  son,  your  vain  and  empty  dreams  release. 
Have  respect  for  my  gray  hair! 
The  estate  requires  your  care; 
Come,  and  you  will  find  competence  and  peace.' 

"  Vainly  were  her  prayers  consigned, 

'Twas  like  preaching  to  the  wind! 
The  poor  old  mother  quit  her  native  spot. 

Old  and  penniless  from  home 

She  departed,  thence  to  roam, 
A  wanderer,  'mong  people  she  knew  not. 

"  So  this  morn,  at  break  of  day, 
Dead  they  found  her,  as  she  lay 
On  her  native  heath,  with  her  home  in  view. 
And  it  is  for  pity's  sake 
The  bells  this  requiem  make. — 
For  God's  sake,  sir,  what  is  amiss  with  you?" 

As  the  tale  closed  the  young  man, 

With  expression  wild,  began, 
While  from  his  eyes  the  tears  were  flowing  fast: 
"  The  sole  murderer  am  I 

Of  my  parents;  dead  they  lie 
As  lies  my  happiness  while  time  shall  last. 

"  Much  I  fancied,  and  I  dreamed, — 

Vain  and  empty  visions  beamed ;  — 
But  the  wind  scattered  them,  and  now  I  see, — 
Having  wakened  to  the  truth, — 
In  the  home  of  my  lost  youth 
Utter  desolation !     Have  pity  on  me! 
21 


322  POETS    AND    POETKY    OF    POLAND. 

"  In  this  village,  on  this  day, 
Pull  amends  for  all  I'll  pay, — 

Eepent  in  sackcloth,  with  ashes  on  my  head ! 
I  will  eat  the  humble  crust, 
And  will  murmur  not;  'tis  just. — 

Say,  but  say  that  my  mother  is  not  dead ! " 

Falling  prostrate  on  the  ground, 
From  the  depths  of  grief  profound 

Rained  bitter  tears  from  suffering  so  great. 
The  old  man  withdrew  apace, 
In  his  hands  he  hid  his  face, 

Saying  "Alas!  it  is  too  late!  too  late!" 


ZAN.  323 


ZAK 

THOMAS  ZAN  was  one  of  the  most  exemplary  and 
high-minded  young  men  who  attended  the  University 
of  Wilno,  1820-3.  After  great  political  catastrophes 
there  always  follows  in  our  literature  a  review  of  his- 
torical elements,  social  as  well  as  literary.  That  very 
thing  occurred  in  the  century  preceding  this  and  in  the 
first  two  decades  of  the  present  century.  People 
began  to  reflect  upon  the  past,  not  only  the  nearest  to 
them,  but  also  into  the  more  remote  periods  of  their 
existence  as  a  nation.  The  result  of  these  reflections 
was  that  all  over  the  nation  there  began  to  form  scien- 
tific and  literary  societies.  The  learned  and  the  littera- 
teurs commenced  establishing  small  circles,  and  though 
they  were  scattered  they  worked  together  in  the  com- 
mon cause  of  enlightenment.  Thus,  in  this  modest  and 
quiet  manner,  little  societies  were  formed  in  Warsaw, 
in  Russia-Poland,  in  Lithuania,  Ukraine,  Podolia,  Vol- 
hynia,  and  in  Lemberg  (Galicia),  and  thus  the  progress 
of  knowledge  spreading  throughout  the  Polish  nation 
gave  a  great  impetus  and  prestige  to  these  associations. 
For  these  there  were  extraneous  causes,  such  as  the 
general  movement  in  European  literature,  which  about 
this  time,  having  shaken  off  the  classic  robes,  began  to 
assume  in  the  writings  of  several  poets  and  writers 
altogether  a  different  direction.  Another  cause  of  the 
impending  change  was  the  mental  movement  in  the 
universities.  In  Germany  especially  this  feeling  of 
enthusiasm  was  created  a  few  years  before  in  order  to 
incite  young  men  to  join  the  ranks  against  Napoleon  I, 
and  it  was  then,  for  the  first  time  in  the  annals  of  the 


324  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

world,  that  young  men  became  political  factors  or  ex- 
ponents. This  spirit  was  brought  home  from  the 
French  wars,  and  was  spread  almost  over  all  universi- 
ties of  Europe;  hence  since  that  time  there  grew  a  sort 
of  self-reliance,  independence,  and  we  may  say  sponta- 
neous manner  and  ways  which  the  young  men  marked 
out  for  themselves  —  a  thing  which  in  the  preceding 
ages  had  never  occurred.  This  being  begotten  during 
French  wars  was  continued  after  their  cessation. 

This  spirit  of  self-reliance  took  hold  of  the  Polish 
youth  also,  and  was  very  palpable  in  the  Kingdom  of 
Poland,  in  Russia-Poland,  and  formed  a  powerful  bond 
among  the  Polish  youths  in  several  prominent  points. 
Young  men  came  there  to  stay  at  least  a  year  to  ac- 
quire further  knowledge,  to  be  examined,  and  to  receive 
degrees  of  learning.  The  most  important  of  these 
places  was  the  University  of  Wilno.  Here,  at  the 
head  of  all  young  men,  was  Thomas  Zan,  a  young  man 
of  rare  virtues  and  the  noblest  qualities  of  the  heart 
and  mind,  his  pure  morals  and  extraordinary  mental 
capacities,  and  his  eloquence,  and  withal  being  very 
gentle  and  urbane  in  his  manners,  he  attached  to  him- 
self all  the  youths;  he  imparted  lessons  of  wisdom  and 
general  light  to  all  around  him.  In  this  select  circle 
were  established  literary  labors  in  almost  all  branches. 
Some  were  studying  natural  sciences,  some  philosophy, 
others  again  were  deeply  engaged  in  historical  lore, 
and  those  who  possessed  a  talent  for  poetry  composed 
songs,  verses  on  all  subjects,  tales,  and  moral  essays. 
From  this  famous  circle  came  almost  all  celebrated 
Polish  authors,  and  it  was  from  this  circle  appeared,  as 
it  were,  the  patriarch  of  our  epoch,  Adam  Mickiewicz. 

In  the  galaxy  of  prominently  unfolding  talent 
around  him  Zan  perceived  especially  the  extraordinary 


ZAN.  325 

poetic  genius  in  Mickiewicz.  An  intimate  and  most 
affectionate  friendship  sprang  up  between  them.  Be- 
ing two  years  older  than  Adam,  Zan,  in  a  most  deli- 
cate and  affectionate  manner,  assumed  a  careful  guid- 
ance over  the  future  poet,  stimulating  him  all  the' 
while  by  the  noblest  examples  from  history,  and  by  his 
own  ideas,  reflections  and  suggestions.  These  efforts, 
still  further  stimulated  by  a  patriotic  love  of  country, 
burning  within  the  breast  of  both,  had  the  desired 
effect,  and  Mickiewicz's  poetic  powers  burst  forth  with 
a  resplendent  luster. 

Thomas  Zan  was  born  on  the  21st  of  December, 
1796,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Minsk.  Shortly  after  the 
taking  of  Praga  by  storm  by  the  Russian  army,  his 
father,  Charles,  then  the  mayor  of  Radoszkowice,  was 
compelled  to  conceal  himself,  while  his  mother  had  to 
flee  her  home  and  seek  protection  at  the  homestead  of 
her  husband's  brother,  called  Miasota,  where  she 
brought  Thomas  into  the  world.  He  was  educated  at 
Minsk  and  Molodeczno.  After  finishing  his  collegiate 
education  he  went,  in  1815,  to  Wilno,  where,  at  the 
university,  he  pursued  the  study  of  natural  sciences, 
and  where  in  a  short  time  he  obtained  a  degree  of 
master  of  arts.  During  a  judicial  inquiry  against  cer- 
tain young  men  of  the  University,  brought  about  by 
Senator  Nowosielcow,  he  was  arrested  in  1823,  impris- 
oned, and  condemned  in  1824:  to  be  exiled;  the  order 
was  executed,  and  he  was  sent  to  Orenburg,  in  Russia, 
where  he  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  natural  sci- 
ences, and,  by  the  order  of  Governor  Perovski,  estab- 
lished a  museum.  In  1826,  through  the  influence  and 
protection  of  Perovski,  he  obtained  a  position  of  libra- 
rian in  the  mining  corps  at  St.  Petersburg.  In  the 
year  1841  he  returned  to  Lithuania,  settled  in  a  country 


326  POETS    AND    POETRY    OB'    POLAND. 

village  called  Kochaczyn,  in  White  Russia,  and  died 
there  the  7th  of  July,  1855. 

Zan  translated  into  the  Polish  language  Washington 
Irving's  "Life  of  Columbus,"  and  published  in  the 
Russian  language  "The  Geographical  Researches"  of 
travels  in  the  Ural  mountains  and  the  steppes  of 
Kirghiz.  He  also  wrote  fugitive  verses  which  were 
published  in  different  periodicals  at  Wilno.  The  most 
noted  of  Zan's  literary  compositions  is  "The  Kitten," 
a  tale  in  two  parts.  We  could  get  only  a  few  of  Zan's 
"Triolets,"  part  of  which  Mickiewicz  has  included  in 
his  poem  "The  Piper." 


TRIOLETS. 


For  whom  do  you  wreathe  the  nuptial  wreath 

Of  roses,  lilies,  and  thyme? 
Whose  radiant  brow  shall  lie  beneath 
The  blossoms  wreathed  in  this  nuptial  wreath, 

Woven  in  Love's  warm  clime? 
Tears  and  blushes  from  them  outbreathe. 
For  whom  do  you  weave  the  nuptial  wreath 

Of  roses,  lilies,  and  thyme. 

You  can  only  bestow  the  wreath  on  one 

Of  roses,  lilies,  and  thyme. 
And  what  though  another's  heart  be  won? 
You  can  only  bestow  the  wreath  on  one, 
Can  only  give  tears  to  the  heart  undone 

That  will  throb  to  your  marriage  chime 
When  the  wreath  is  given  to  the  happier  one 

Of  roses,  lilies,  and  thyme. 


ZAN.  327 


ii. 

Tell  me  why  did  I  fear 

When  my  eyes  beheld  thee  first? 
Why  so  cowardly  appear? 

Tell  me  why  did  I  fear? 
No  tyrant  wert  thou,  dear, 

Yet  I,  shrinking,  feared  the  worst. 
Tell  me  why  did  I  fear 

When  my  eyes  beheld  thee  first? 


We  can  love  but  once  in  life, 

Once  only  and  sincerely; 
And  but  once  feel  Love's  sweet  strife; 

We  can  love  but  once  in  life. 
No  words  with  wisdom  rife 

Can  change  the  matter;  clearly 
We  can  love  but  once  in  life, 

Once  only,  and  sincerely. 


328  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 


GASZYftSKI. 

CONSTANTINE  GASZYNSKI  has  not  left  any  great  poems 
behind  him,  but  in  all  his  effusions  there  is  a  soul  — 
and  with  that  he  won  the  hearts  of  all  his  readers. 
The  chief  quality  of  his  composition  is  feeling.  Of 
those  poetic  effusions  where  he  did  not  imitate  anyone, 
but  let  his  heart  take  its  natural  inclination,  we  can 
truly  say  that  they  are  beautiful,  and  will  never  cease 
to  appeal  to  the  finest  feelings  of  our  nature.  Amidst 
the  changes  of  his  life  many  a  song  flowed  sponta- 
neously from  his  heart.  Some  of  his  first  compositions 
remind  us  by  their  sweetness  of  Stephen  Witwicki,  and 
are  noted  for  their  beautiful  rhythmical  form,  "Three 
Inspirations,"  "Soldier's  Death,"  "Black  Dress," 
"Death  of  General  Sowinski,"  and  "The  National 
Air,"  will  always  reach  the  national  feeling  and  be 
repeated  by  all;  indeed,  they  have  already  become 
national  songs.  Albert  Sowinski,  and  even  Chopin, 
composed  airs  to  them.  They  coursed  throughout  the 
whole  nation,  and  the  generation  of  those  days  held 
them  as  household  songs.  Who  is  there  among  the 
Poles  who  does  not  know  "When  by  the  Shores  of 
Your  Beloved  Land"  and  "Usque  ad  finem  "  ?  The 
Polish  youth  committed  them  to  memory  and  sung 
them  throughout  the  realm. 

To  the  better  poems  of  Gaszynski  belong  "Idyls  of 
Youth,"  "Cards  and  Card-players,"  "A  Satire," 
"Horse  Races,"  etc.  His  translations  from  Beranger 
and  Heine  are  splendid,  and  are  all  distinguished  by 
polished  and  correct  language.  Sigismund  Krasinski 
had  so  high  an  opinion  of  Gaszyfiski's  rhythmical 


GASZYNSKI.  329 

knowledge  that  he  would  not  publish  anything  before 
first  reading  the  manuscript  to  him.  Besides  those  ele- 
gant poems  he  also  wrote  romances,  tales  and  memoirs. 
After  the  revolution  of  1863  he  grasped  his  pen  once 
more,  but  only  with  a  feeble  hand.  He  composed, 
however,  several  songs. 

Gaszynski  was  born  in  1809  at  leziorno,  not  far  from 
Radom,  and  received  his  education  at  the  Lyceum  and 
the  University  of  Warsaw,  and  in  the  company  of  many 
distinguished  litterateurs  often  visited  the  salons  of 
Vincent  Krasinski.  From  the  year  1828  to  1830  he 
edited  with  Zienkowicz  "A  Review  for  the  Fair  Sex." 
With  the  outbreak  of  the  revolution  of  1831  he  joined 
the  national  ranks,  and  was  through  the  whole  cam- 
paign; and  after  the  downfall  of  the  cause,  with  the 
rank  of  first  lieutenant,  he  emigrated  with  others  into 
foreign  countries.  The  poet's  health  requiring  south- 
ern climate,  he  chose  Provence  as  the  place  of  his  resi- 
dence, and  settled  at  Aix,  where  he  passed  many  years, 
leaving  the  place  only  to  meet  his  attached  friend,  the 
poet  Sigismund  Krasinski,  or  to  make  occasional  visits 
to  Italy. 

"  The  museums  and  the  collections  of  arts  at  Aix  en- 
gaged most  of  his  time.  In  1852  he  traveled  exten- 
sively through  Italy,  and  his  letters  from  that  country 
to  a  friend  in  Cracow  formed  a  separate  volume,  which 
was  published  at  Leipzig  in  1853.  Speaking  the  French 
language  as  well  as  the  Polish,  he,  soon  after  he  came 
to  reside  at  Aix,  began  to  publish  his  literary  labors  in 
the  "Gazette  du  Midi"  and  "Le  Memorial  d'Aix," 
and  after  a  few  years  became  the  chief  editor  of  the 
last  named. 

Being  broken  down  in  health,  and  suffering  other 
strokes  of  ill  fortune,  he  died  on  the  8th  of  October, 


330       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

1866,  surrounded  by  many  of  his  distinguished  Polish 
friends,  as  also  by  the  first  citizens  of  Aix,  who  truly 
appreciated  his  genius  and  had  the  highest  respect  for 
him  personally  as  a  high-minded  and  honorable  man. 
The  first  collection  of  his  works  was  published  in 
Paris,  1833,  entitled  "Songs  of  a  Polish  Pilgrim;" 
"Mr.  Desiderius,"  also  in  Paris,  1846;  "Other  Me- 
moirs," 1847;  "A  Chat  Among  the  Olden-time  Poles," 
1851;  "Idyl  of  Youth,"  1855;  "Horse  Races  at  War- 
saw," Paris,  1856;  "Poems,"  Paris,  1856;  "A  Collec- 
tion of  Poems  pro  bono  Publico,"  1858;  "Card-play- 
ing and  Card-players,"  Paris,  1858;  translation  of 
Krasinski's  poem  into  French,  "Before  Daybreak;" 
"The  Last,"  and  "  Resurecturis,"  Paris,  1862.  He  is 
also  the  author  of  many  works  and  dissertations  writ- 
ten originally  by  him  in  the  French  language,  the  most 
noted  of  which  is  "The  Monograph,"  "  Les  Cabinets 
de  Tableaux  Artistiques  de  la  Yille  d'Aix."  He  left  in 
the  manuscript  "  Sigismund  Krasinski  and  My  Inter- 
course with  Him,"  but  those  interesting  memoirs  can- 
not be  published  until  a  certain  time  after  his  death. 

SHAKSPEARE  (A  SONNET). 

Thou  eagle!  who  with  mind's  audacious  aim 

Hast  touched  the  stars  where  none  have  reached  before, 

And  left  us  grand  memorials  in  thy  lore, 
Hast  known  man's  heart,  as  Phidias  knew  his  frame. 
Not  Dante-like  wert  thou  —  he  reached  for  fame, 

And  gave  his  youth  thoughts  mysteries  to  explore. 
Not  like  Byron,  who  roved  from  shore  to  shore, 
To  rest  at  last  where  Grecian  stars  outflame. 
Thou  stoodst  alone,  and  from  the  wells  of  thought, 

As  Moses  from  the  rock  set  waters  free 

Whose  currents  flow  into  eternity, 


GASZYNSKI.  331 

In  thine  own  heart  gigantic  voices  wrought 
Echoes  to  reach  with  most  harmonious  note 
The  wondering  ear  of  ages  far  remote. 

WHEN  BY  THE  SHORES  OF  YOUR  BELOVED  LAND. 
(Gdy  na  wybrzeiach  twoiej  Ojczyzny.) 

When  by  the  shores  of  your  beloved  land 

You  chance  to  see  a  shattered  vessel  fill, 

Wrecked  by  the  pilot's  lack  of  judging  skill  — 
Thi'ough  shallow  waters  driven  at  his  command  — 

Give  it,  oh!  give  it  at  least  a  tear, 

For  thus  is  hapless  Poland  imaged  here. 

If  you  should  chance  upon  an  orphan  child, 

Alike  of  home  and  mother's  love  bereft, 

Who,  mourning  in  a  foreign  land,  is  left 
To  wait  the  hope's  return  that  once  beguiled, 

Look  in  his  tearful  face,  and  you  will  see 

Of  Poland's  sons  a  hapless  refugee. 

And  if  your  glance  should  ever  chance  to  rest 

•    On  some  high  mountain  of  volcanic  fire 
Whose  flames  through  smoke  and  lava  floods  aspire, 

Sent  up  from  heat  eternal  in  its  breast, 

Think  then,  'Tis  thus  the  ardent  flames  upstart 
From  love  of  country  in  the  Polish  heart. 

And  should  your  thoughts  to  other  countries  wend, 

And  find  a  people  that  are  glad  and  free, 

A  land  of  plenty  and  fertility 
O'er  which  no  bloody  scepter  shall  extend, 

0!  raise  your  hands  and  supplicate  in  prayer 

That  Poland  too  such  happiness  may  share! 


332  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

THE  YOUNG  WARRIOR  AND  THE  SWALLOW. 

A  gallant  young  warrior  in  far  foreign  land, 

By  strangers  surrounded,  misfortune  oppressed, 
Unable  his  sad,  bitter  thoughts  to  command 

Of  his  country  so  dear,  he  by  sad  fate  distressed, 
Beheld  from  the  West  a  wee  swallow  flying, 

And  said,  with  expression  of  great  pain  and  care: 
You  surely  flew  over  where  Poland  is  lying  — 

What  message  or  news  do  you  bring  me  from  there? 

Perhaps  it  so  happened  you  rested  a  spell, 

And  built  'neath  the  eaves  of  my  cottage  your  nest, 
Near  by  where  the  waters  of  Pilica  fell; 

Where  groves  are  sweet  and  vales  full  of  rest  — 
There  where  my  good  mother  each  day  sheddeth  tears, 

And  fondles  the  thought  of  my  speedy  return 
With  hopes  rising  high  —  chased  away  oft  by  fears. 

What  news  from  my  mother  so  dear  can  I  learn? 

Perhaps,  too,  you  rested  on  Vistula's  shore, 

Where  my  lonely  heart  ever  calls  me  to  fly; 
Where  happiest  bliss  I  first  gathered  in  store, 

And  heaven  I  beheld  in  a  sweet  angel's  eye. 
Ah !  does  my  beloved  one  think  of  me  ever, 

When  the  winds  gently  from  the  Easter-land  come? 
Does  she  send  me  her  longing  sighs!     Alas!  never! 

What  news  do  you  bring  me  from  my  beloved  one? 

And  my  comrades,  alas!  who  with  me  did  go 

To  fight  for  our  freedom  in  same  rank  and  file 
At  the  bayonet's  point  —  do  they  press  to  the  foe  ? 

And  I  here,  alas!  lying  idle  the  while. 
Are  they  living?  or  who  of  my  friends  was  it  said 

Are  folded  away  in  the  cold,  cruel  tomb? 
It  may  be,  perchance,  all  are  perished  and  dead. 

What  news  can  you  bring  me  of  friends  from  my  home? 


GASZYNSKI.  333 

Perhaps  'midst  my  household  with  voice  of  command 

The  cruel  foe  rules  my  dear  kindred  to-night, 
While  fond  mother's  weeping  and  prayers  they  withstand, 

For  savage  hearts  now  —  not  a  feeling  of  right. 
Here  I  change  me  to  joy  —  from  joy  back  to  pain, 

When  stories  so  varied,  uncertain  I  hear. 
0,  swallow!  pray  tell  of  my  country  again. 

What  news  do  you  bring  me  of  Poland  so  dear? 

ENVY. 

A  refugee  within  a  stranger  land, 

I  marked,  while  mingling  with  the  proud  and  grand, 

The  rare  profusion  in  their  homes  displayed; 
I  saw  the  riches  which  surrounded  them, 
But  envied  not  this  wealth  of  gold  and  gem  — 

It  was  far  other  wealth  for  which  I  prayed. 

I  have  known  those  who  with  a  thrilling  word 

Could  sway  the  thousand  answering  hearts  that  stirred. 

Crowds  knelt  before  them,  moved  to  joy  or  bliss, 
Though  such  may  be  a  mighty  power  to  wield, 
My  mind  aspired  not  to  so  wide  a  field. 

I  did  not  crave  the  glory  like  to  this. 

I  knew  two  lovers  once  whose  pulses  beat 
To  one  harmonious  tone  of  love  complete; 

Whose  blended  lives  a  flower-like  fragrance  wrought. 
Yet  though  I  lived  and  moved  through  crowds  alone, 
I  envied  not  the  joy  they  made  their  own. 

It  was  another  type  of  love  I  sought. 

Once  o'er  the  sea  a  sailor  boy  returned 
From  a  long  voyage,  while  his  bosom  yearned 

For  kindred  welcome,  and  his  eyes  grew  dim ; 
When  'mid  the  throng  appeared  his  mother's  face, 
And  tears  were  mingled  in  a  fond  embrace. 

Ah!  then  it  was  I  felt — I  envied  him! 


334  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 


BOGUSLAWSKI. 

THE  subject  of  this  short  biographical  sketch  was 
the  son  of  a  very  distinguished  dramatic  writer  of  that 
name,  and  was  born  in  1805.  As  a  writer  he  possesses 
great  talent  in  the  delineation  of  comedy,  and  it  places 
him  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  dramatic  authors.  He 
served  in  the  Polish  army,  and  since  1833  has  become 
a  successful  dramatic  artist. 

His  comedies  were  published  in  three  volumes  at 
Warsaw  in  1854,  entitled  ''Original  Comedies."  Among 
the  most  noted  of  these  are  "My  Relations,"  "Craco- 
vians  and  Mountaineers,"  "The  Lioness  of  Warsaw," 
and  "She  Hates  Him."  All  these  comedies  were  re- 
ceived with  great  applause.  We  give  one  of  his  lyrics. 

SHE   ONLY   LAUGHED. 

Once  a  little  girl  and  a  little  boy 

Played  gaily  together  on  the  same  lawn, 
They  sang  the  same  song  in  their  childish  joy, — 

John  with  Halina,  Halina  with  John. 

Johnny  plucked  tryony  red,  to  entwine 

Mid  her  bright  golden  hair  with  boyish  craft, 

And  when  back  from  the  well  they  saw  it  shine, 

She  and  Johnny  laughed, —  she  and  Johnny  laughed. 

In  harvest  time,  so  encouraged  was  he, 

Like  flashes  of  lightning  his  sickle  fell, 
When  he  was  with  her  it  was  plain  to  see, 

Though  the  sweat  ran  down,  he  could  work  right  well. 

To  the  church  together  they  used  to  go 

On  each  Sunday  and  every  holiday; 
Halina  looked  merrily  to  and  fro, 

But  Johnny  looked  into  her  eyes  alway. 


BOGUSfcAWSKI.  335 

When  service  was  done  and  on  coming  out, 
The  boys  and  girls  and  the  people  would  say: 

"A  very  nice  pair  they  will  make,  no  doubt." 
Halina,  of  course,  laughed  such  thoughts  away. 

Johnny  grew  to  a  lad  as  years  rolled  by, 

True  hearted  and  handsome,  with  active  brain; 

The  maidens  looked  after  him  with  a  sigh, 
But  'twas  all  in  vain, —  it  was  all  in  vain. 

For  Halina  rivaled  a  rose's  grace, 

With  cheeks  red  and  blooming  and  almost  daft; 
Johnny,  half  trembling,  looked  into  her  face, 

But  she  only  laughed, —  but  she  only  laughed. 

No  longer  he  sang  at  night  and  at  morn, 

Nor  decked  her  with  flowers  as  when  they  played; 

He  was  sad  at  his  work,  he  felt  forlorn, 

For  he  loved  the  maid, —  for  he  loved  the  maid. 

Once  he  said  for  her  sake,  without  a  fear, 
He  would  plunge  in  the  fire  if  she  willed  so; 

His  language  was  heartfelt  and  most  sincere, 

But  she  laughed  at  his  words, —  laughed  at  his  woe. 

Then  the  poor  boy  covered  his  face  from  sight, 

And  bitterly  wept  in  his  wretchedness; 
His  eye  became  dim,  and  his  face  grew  white, 

So  deep  was  his  suffering  and  distress. 

He  faded  as  withers  the  grass  in  fall, 

As  flowers,  when  touched  by  the  frost,  decay; 

He  bade  an  eternal  farewell  to  all, 

And  passed  from  sorrow  and  grief  away. 

On  Johnny's  coffin,  when  three  days  had  passed, 

A  handful  of  earth  Halina  spread; 
In  the  evening  her  tears  of  grief  fell  fast, 

But  she  laughed  again  when  the  night  had  fled. 


336       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


LENARTOWICZ. 

THEOPHILUS  LENARTOWICZ  was  the  first  who  followed 
the  footsteps  of  Julius  Slowacki.  In  him  we  see  the 
songs  and  the  feelings  of  the  Polish  people  majestic- 
ally raised  heavenward;  and  when  he  proclaimed  that 
love,  prayer  and  labor  were  the  three  shining  stars 
guiding  the  Christian  and  national  life,  his  honest  voice 
•was  heard,  and  its  beautiful  and  truthful  sounds  were 
received  with  unanimous  acknowledgment  by  the  whole 
Polish  nation.  Lenartowicz  has  in  him  something  so 
rural  and  home-like  that  it  makes  it  a  pleasant  task  to 
read,  his  writings.  Most  of  his  poetry  has  so  much 
music  and  harmony  in  it  that  he  could  be  compared 
with  Bohdan  Zaleski,  the  great  favorite  of  the  Poles. 

Lenartowicz  resembles  in  his  song  the  whole  peo- 
ple,—  he  is  simple,  quiet,  and  deep.  In  his  humble 
cottage  is  contained  his  whole  heaven  and  his  earth. 
He  knows  nothing  of  the  artificial  bounds  of  societary 
intercourse,  which  often  attract  the  learned  and  re- 
fined. With  him  God  is  everywhere;  hence  his  heaven 
is  everywhere.  Heaven  to  him  is  as  dear  as  the  earth 
on  which  he  sojourns,  only  it  is  higher  and  more  per- 
fect. To  him  the  earth  without  heaven  would  be  an 
unintelligible  problem;  he  could  not  understand  heaven 
without  the  earth.  His  heaven  is  earthly,  and  he  con- 
siders the  earth  as  a  living  image,  a  probationary  place, 
and  an  ante-chamber  of  heaven.  Among  all  the  Po- 
lish poets  Lenartowicz  is  the  poet  of  the  future.  He 
is  the  lover  of  the  new  era  just  exactly  as  are  the  peo- 
ple for  whom  he  sings.  The  kingdom  of  God  —  which 
according  to  the  prediction  of  seers  and  bards  is  yet 


LENARTOWICZ.  337 

to  come  —  which  Krasinski  contemplates  with  a  reflex 
glass  and  Pol  expects  to  reach  by  the  sword,  while 
Slowacki  endeavors  to  dream  it  out  by  the  process  of 
imagination,  Lenartowicz  sees  with  his  own  naked  eye 
of  intuition. 

The  Polish  nation,  prostrated  by  fearful  vicissitudes 
of  fortune, —  their  energies  benumbed  by  so  many 
bloody  catastrophes, —  were  glad  to  listen  to  his  quiet 
muse,  and  if  occasionally  it  lulled  them  to  sleep,  it 
was  all  the  more  welcome  on  that  account.  These 
beautiful  fugitive  verses,  appearing  now  and  then  in 
newspapers  and  periodicals  of  the  day,  were  like  the 
gentle  breezes  wafting  their  fragrance  and  cooling  the 
feverish  brow  of  the  people.  There  is  much  feeling 
in  them,  much  -purity  and  originality.  This  originality 
some  may  think  monotonous,  but  it  is  like  the  flowers 
of  the  prairie,  growing  separate  and  apart  and  scat- 
tered over  a  great  expanse,  when  made  into  a  single 
bunch  apparently  lose  their  brightness;  but  although 
the  theme  is  changed,  whether  the  strings  are  tuned 
higher  or  lower  they  always  emit  the  same  pleasant 
tones. 

Lenartowicz  was  born  in  1822  in  Warsaw.  After 
finishing  his  education  he  entered  a  law  office  as  a 
student.  In  1837  he  became  a  pleader  in  the  highest 
courts,  and  three  years  after  was  named  a  chancellor. 
In  1848  he  was  offered  the  office  of  referee  in  the  Na- 
tional Commission  of  Justice,  but  would  not  accept  it, 
and  in  consequence  of  the  events  which  then  transpired 
left  Poland  for  foreign  countries.  During  several  years 
following  he  alternately  resided  at  Cracow,  Breslau, 
and  Posen.  Having  in  1851  obtained  a  passport  he 
went  to  Paris,  and  from  there  to  Fontainebleau,  and 
still  later  to  Rome.  Here  his  health  seemed  to  fail, 
22 


338  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

hence  lie  removed  to  Florence,  where  he  married  the 
celebrated  artiste  of  painting,  Sophie  Szymanowska, 
and  where  he  probably  resides  at  the  present  time. 

Among  the  chief  literary  productions  of  Lenarto- 
wicz  are  "The  Polish  Land  in  Portraitures,"  published 
in  Cracow,  1848,  and  in  Posen,  1850;  "The  Enchant- 
ment" and  "The  Blessed,"  Posen,  1855;  "New  Little 
Lyre,"  Warsaw,  1859;  "  Saint  Sophia,"  Posen,  1857; 
"Poems,"  iu  two  volumes,  Posen,  1863. 

EVER   THE   SAME. 

With  the  snow  disappearing  the  ice  melts  away, 

And  the  rivers  their  flowing  begin  unaware, 
And  the  swallows  that  sing  in  the  sun's  cheery  ray 

Rise  flock  after  flock  in  the  air. 
They  whirl  on  their  pinions,  rise  high,  and  dive  low 

O'er  a  stream,  crystal  clear,  where  the  pebbles  gleam  white, 
Then  around  and  around  in  a  circle  they  go, 

More  swiftly  each  time  in  their  flight. 

On  the  green  of  the  grass  overspreading  the  shore 

Graze  the  cows  and  the  sheep,  clad  in  snowy  white  fleece; 
On  his  fife  plays  the  shepherd;  —  the  sun  rays  explore 

Earth's  bosom  and  give  her  increase. 
The  gentle  winds  murmur  and  sweep  through  the  grass, 

Sway  the  boughs  of  the  trees  in  their  frolicsome  play, 
Grow  stiller  as  on  to  the  forest  they  pass, 

And  then  in  its  depths  die  away. 

The  little  birds  pause  in  their  hymns  for  awhile, 
Then  the  church  bell  begins  its  slow  toll  solemnly 

For  the  prayer  whose  faint  murmur  is  heard  in  the  aisle. 
Then  ceases  the  bell,  and  the  bee 

Begins  its  low  hum  ori  the  blossoming  green, 

To  and  fro  'mid  the  flowers  on  its  golden  wing  boi'ne, 


LENARTOWICZ.  339 

While  the  little  girl's  song  rises  trembling  between. — 

0  ray  God!  in  the  spring's  fresh  morn 
How  graciously  all  things  Thy  hand  doth  adorn! 

In  the  shade  of  an  old  linden  tree  I  recline, 

That  is  scarcely  beginning  to  burgeon  and  shoot; 

I  list,  as  he  flits  through  the  boughs  of  the  pine, 
How  the  cuckoo  is  cooing  his  suit. 

0  cuckoo!  0  cuckoo!     Of  years  that  remain 
How  many  are  there  you  shall  number  for  me? 

When,  0  bird!  —  my  dear  bird  of  the  prophet-like  strain, — 

Will  the  end  of  this  counting  be? 
It  is  twelve  already,  if  rightly  I  heard; 
You  have  counted  too  many  for  me,  my  bird!  * 

Low  each  bough  of  the  apple  and  pear  tree  drops; 

All  too  heavily  laden  with  fruit  are  they; 
And  over  the  meadow  the  girls  bring  the  props 

To  grandpa,  who  whittles  away. 

1  watch  as  he  gives  them  a  welcoming  smile; 

'Tis  a  picture  to  treasure  on  memory's  page. 
How  happy  I  feel,  though  the  tears  start  the  while;  — 
God!  give  me  such  happy  old  age! 

O'er  the  fields  hung  with  mist  see  the  shadows  increase; 

The  day's  labor  ends  as  the  sun  westers  low; 
No  sound  greets  the  ear  save  the  cackling  of  geese, 

No  sight  save  the  white  fences  show. 
Now  and  then  the  slow  wheel  of  a  wagon  is  heard; 

From  some  creature  estrayed  comes  a  sound  now  and  then, 
Or  a  creak  from  the  well  when  the  old  crane  is  stirred, 

And  then  falls  the  silence  again. 

*  There  is  a  remarkable  superstition  in  some  parts  of  Poland  in 
regard  to  this  bird,  and  it  has  its  influence  with  almost  every  rank 
in  society;  namely,  when  it  makes  its  appearance  in  the  Spring, 
each  one  listens,  the  first  time  they  hear  it,  with  rapt  attention,  be- 
lieving that  the  number  of  times  it  utters  the  word  "cuckoo"  indi- 
cates the  number  of  years  they  are  to  live. 


340  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

In  the  garden-patch  brother  is  hoeing  around, 

Grandpa  whittles  and  whittles,  his  back  to  a  tree; 
Two  sisters  are  spreading  the  flax  on  the  ground, 

And  chanticleer  crows  cheerily. 
When  'tis  cloudy  without  we  are  happy  within; 

Our  roof  is  secure  when  the  tempest  makes  strife; 
And  sweet  is  the  bread  that  through  labor  we  win 

For  father,  for  children,  and  wife. 

There's  pleasure  in  all  things  surrounding  me  here; 

My  country,  my  people,  are  precious  to  me. 
In  the  home  of  the  farmer  dwells  sunshine  and  cheer, 

And  a  bird  that  sings  constantly. 
Where  a  wife  spins  and  sings  to  the  wheel's  drowsy  tune, 

Where  the  rich  soil  yields  us  a  bountiful  crop, 
Where  the  star  bathes  its  ray  in  the  well,  and  the  moon 

Rises  up  o'er  the  forest  top. 

Is  there  pleasanter  looks  than  our  neighbors  can  give? 

Water  purer  than  that  which  wells  freshly  from  earth? 
Aught  more  sweet  than  in  memory  of  kindred  to  live, 

More  dear  than  the  land  of  our  birth? 
And  what  better  gift  than  a  mind  of  content? 

A  heart  open, —  honest ;  —  all  else  is  above. 
What  more  sad  than  the  days  of  our  youth,  lost  and  spent? 

What  more  holy  than  labor  and  love? 

This  world  is  made  up  of  the  good  and  the  ill, — 

Of  all  sorts  of  people,  with  natures  diverse, 
And  they  each  go  their  ways,  and  they  each  work  their  will 

As  maybe, —  for  better  or  worse. 
I  spend  the  spare  time  with  my  children  and  song, 

With  father  and  grandsire, —  a  life  free  from  blame; 
And  the  days  they  pass  smoothly,  if  slowly,  along, — 

Pass  brightly, —  though  ever  the  same. 


DEOTVMA. 


DEOTYMA.  343 

DEOTYMA. 

(HEDWIGE  EUSZCZEWSKA.)* 

HEDWIGE  EUSZCZEWSKA  (Deotyma)  is  known  in  the 
Polish  literature  as  a  lady  of  extraordinary  poetic 
talent;  she  is  in  reality  a  wonderfully  gifted  improvvi- 
satrice  and  rhapsodist /  hence  she  must  be  considered 
as  an  uncommon  phenomenon  of  our  age.  She  is  so 
gifted  that  she  can  apparently,  with  scarcely  an  effort, 
incarnate  an  idea  into  a  living  being, —  not  a  being  that 
throbs,  quivers,  and  palpitates,  —  but  she  can  embellish 
it  with  such  an  illusive  language  that  it  seems  so.  Her 
lyrism  is  not  of  a  slender  and  nauseous  kind,  but  a 
quiet  and  yet  sublime  comprehension  of  the  subject, 
united  with  bright  imagery  and  loftiness.  The  lyric 
art  of  our  poetess  consists  not  only  of  the  characteris- 
tics of  epic  poetry,  but  also  possesses  a  finished  dramatic 
turn.  The  most  admired  improvisations  of  Deotyma 
are  "Spring,"  "Sculpture,"  "Stones,"  "Birds," 
"Painting,"  and  "Flowers";  perhaps  the  best  of  all 
is  "The  Highest  Love."  Deotyma  feels,  perhaps, 
involuntarily  an  inclination  to  the  dramatic  Muse,  as 
is  plainly  shown  in  her  fantastic  creations:  "The  Mys- 
tery of  Fruits,"  "Tamira,"  and  "Stanislas  Lubom- 
•irski,"  of  which  it  can  be  remarked  that  aside  from 
some  forms  and  turns  resembling  the  monologues  of 
Goethe's  "  Faust,"  there  is  not  much  of  dramatic  art, 
and  there  is  an  uncertainty  whether  Deotyma' s  genius 
is  thus  adapted.  From  these  dramatic  specimens  she 
went  into  epopee  as  "  Poland  in  Song,"  and  "  Poetry." 

*  Pronounce  Heclvig  tioosh-tchev-skah. 


344  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Deotyma's  improvisations  are  written  mostly  under  the 
influences  of  occurring  circumstances;  but  the  multi- 
tude of  images  introduced  in  them  makes  one  feel 
restive  under  the  pressure,  and  at  other  times  one  gets 
weary  of  the  frequent  introduction  of  philosophical 
views,  which  oftentimes  are  but  cloudy  mysticisms. 
Some  of  her  allegorical  compositions  are  wrought  up 
in  a  highly  poetic  and  finished  style;  such  are  "  The 
Mysteries  of  Fruits,"  "Pilgrim,"  "  May  Visions," 
"Storm  in  the  Desert,"  "Wreaths,"  "A  Dream," 
"  The  Power  of  Song,"  "  The  Inspiration,"  and  others; 
perhaps  the  finest  and  the  most  finished  of  all  is  "The 
Prayer."  The  chief  idea  of  Deotyma's  composition  is 
of  a  religious  cast, — an  anticipation  that  society  can  be 
regenerated  only  by  faith. 

Deotyma  always  surrounds  herself  with  phantasm; 
it  is  her  strongest  forte,  and  yet  the  weakest.  Her 
notions  of  society,  her  ideas  of  history,  and  the 
unfolding  of  human  spirit  in  form  and  action,  are 
always  rosy,  well  meant,  and  possess  unaffected  sim- 
plicity. They  are  like  the  smiles  of  a  child,  unsuit- 
able to  well-wrought  ideas,  and  not  consonant  with 
the  life  of  reality;  but  after  all  one  cannot  but  admire 
her  many  precious  gems  of  genius,  which  shed  a  great 
luster  upon  the  national  literature. 

Deotyma  was  born  before  1840,  at  Warsaw.  She 
is  the  daughter  of  Wachrvv  Luszczewski,  counsellor  of 
state,  and  the  director  of  the  commercial  and  industrial 
department.  Her  first  education  was  under  the  super- 
vision of  Dominick  Schultz,  and  Anton  Waga,  the 
celebrated  Polish  naturalist.  She  traveled  in  Ger- 
many and  other  countries,  and  made  an  excursion  into 
the  Carpathian  Mountains.  Descriptions  of  her  trav- 
els were  published  in  "The  Warsaw  Gazette,"  and 


DEOTYMA. 


345 


"The  Illustrated  Weekly. "  In  1865  she  returned  with 
her  father  from  the  far-off  regions  of  Russia  to  her 
native  place. 

Her  poetry  was  published  in  Warsaw  in  1854,  1856, 
1859  and  1860. 


SYMPHONY   OF   LIFE. 

A  LYRIC  SCENE. 
WRITTEN  BY  DEOTYMA  ON  THE  ONE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF 

BEETHOVEN'S  BIRTH; 
Performed  at  Warsaw  on  the  17th  day  of  December,  1870.* 


Allegro  con  brio. 


*  The  following  poem  was  written  on  the  one  hundredth  anni- 
versary of  Beethoven's  birth,  which  was  celebrated  with  great  solem- 
nity in  the  city  of  Warsaw  on  the  17th  of  December,  1870.  In  this 
beautiful  lyric  scene  Krolikowski  played  Beethoven,  and  Madam 
Palinska  represented  the  genius  of  Music.  The  newspapers  of  those 
days  .write  about  the  event  as  follows:  "We  will  not  even  attempt 
to  give  a  correct  account  of  the  charms  of  the  Polish  verse,  sublim- 
ity of  ideas  and  unassumed  inspiration.  Our  opinion  is,  however, 
that  the  performance  was  the  most  creditable  representation  of  hom- 
age to  the  memory  of  Beethoven  ever  given  in  our  city. 

From  Beethoven's  dialogue  his  desire  is  plainly  shown  to  write 
a  Symphony  of  Life.  While  he  sits  down  to  the  composition  of  his 
work  an  unseen  orchestra  plays  the  first  part  of  the  symphony. 
After  that  is  finished  another  dialogue  takes  place  before  "Adagio," 
and  a  third  one  before  "  Scherzo,"  with  a  finale.  In  this  way  the 
idea  of  the  composer,  represented  by  scenery  and  poetical  elucida- 
tion, exerted  a  magic  influence  on  the  audience.  No  one  remem- 


346       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

A  portico.  Back  in  the  distance  a  grove.  Toward  one  side 
a  column,  on  which  stands  Beethoven's  bust.  In  the 
middle  a  small  table,  having  on  one  side  the  column,  and 
on  the  other  a  chair.  On  the  chair  sits  Beethoven,  lean- 
ing on  the  table,  with  his  face  covered  by  his  hands.  On 
the  table  before  him  there  is  inkstand  and  pen  and  musical 
note-paper.  From  the  column  side  Music,  in  a  classic 
dress,  with  a  laurel  branch  in  her  hands,  approaches 
Beethoven,  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Music. 
Beethoven,  awake!     I  would  address  thy  soul. 

BEETHOVEN. 
I  am  not  sleeping. 

Music. 

Not  sleeping?     Commonly 
Life  seems  one  half  a  dream  to  be  — 
Until  Inspiration  with  a  high  control 
Awakens  the  soul  to  real  life,  pure  and  free. 

BEETHOVEN  (raising  his  head), 

Under  the  fondling  of  that  heavenly  hand 
I  feel  .  .  .  my  spirit  wakes  from  mists  of  sleep  — 
Oh,  my  dream  'mid  people  fearful  was  and  deep! 
I  thank  thee,  Music,  for  thy  influence  bland; 
It  has  awakened  me.     0  seraph,  stay! 
Come,  my  own  beloved,  and  my  soul  possess, 
I  will  follow  thee  even  into  endlessness. 
I  am  forever  thine! 

bers  such  perfect  stillness  and  such  emotion  during  any  concert 
before. 

One  of  the  reportorial   corps  questioned   the  poetess  why  the 
genius  of  Music  did  not  crown  Beethoven  himself,  but  only  his  bust? 
The  poetess  replied,  in  the  words  of  Naruszewicz,  the  poet: 
"  True  greatness  is  never  crowned  with  glory  during  this  life, 
The  crown  is  put  on  after  they  are  gone  —  upon  their  monuments." 


DEOTYMA.  347 

Music. 

All  words  that  thou  dost  say 
Music  hears  and  changes  into  melodies  — 
As  genius  loves  genius  with  spontaneous  glow 
Thus  I  love  thee !     I  take  thy  soul  and  show 
To  thee  Creation's  marvelous  mysteries  — 
For  thee  I  came  down  from  regions  of  the  sun 
Into  this  darkness. 
Come  with  thy  beloved  into  infinity. 
What  is  it  thy  heart  would  solve  to  day?  tell  me, 
For  Music  no  secrets  hath  from  thee  —  not  one ! 

BEETHOVEN. 

All  to  me  is  happiness  when  thou  art  near  — 
But  amid  the  people  tones  discordant  sound, 
The  stars  revolve  harmoniously  around, 
But  a  chaos  still  does  human  life  appear. 
Hearts  are  sobbing,  and  desolate  spirits 'moan. 
The  songs  of  the  world  are  fully  known  to  me, 
And  thus  sadly  ask  I  why  should  Harmony 
Ev'ry where  exist,  save  in  man's  life  alone? 

Music. 

Ah,  thou'rt  wrong!     There's  harmony  thou  must  hear, 
Voices  of  more  worlds  than  one  to  comprehend  — 
Life  is  a  symphony  loud  that  rises  clear  — 
Where  voices  of  earth,  of  hell  and  heaven  blend. 

BEETHOVEN  (unfolding  a  roll  of  paper). 

Stay.     I  would  write  thy  utterances  —  that  when 
I  shall  return  to  the  world  half-dreaming  still 
I  may  show  thy  revelations  unto  men  — 
Awakening  those  whose  souls  thy  words  can  thrill. 
(A  moment's  silence.) 


348  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF   POLAND. 

Music. 

Hark!  some  one  comes  thro'  darkness  and  silence  drear  .  . 
It  pauses  now,  say  you  — what  hear  you? 

BEETHOVEN. 

I  hear  — 

Three  strokes  .  .  .  deep  are  they  and  very  ominous; 
The  bravest  must  tremble  .  .  .  when  that  sound  is  heard. 

Music. 

Even  the  spirits  with  sudden  dread  are  stirred, 
Destiny  knocks  at  the  gates  to  Heaven  thus. 

BEETHOVEN. 
What  does  it  wish? 

Music. 

With  all  earth's  voice,  in  solemn  tone 
It  calls:  "  Young  soul!  it  is  thy  turn,  come  thou  away.' 
At  that  sound  (to  none  save  the  happy  known) 
The  heavens  are  disturbed  with  subtle  sway. 
The  powers  of  Paradise  as  guests  regret 
The  interruption  of  the  feast  whisp'ring  low 
"  Who  will  then  open  to  him  ?"  but  none  will  go, 
Although  Destiny  knocks  loud  and  louder  yet. 
But  here  look!  a  radiant  young  soul  alone 
By  the  firm  voice  of  its  own  destiny  led  — 
Suddenly  rises  aglow  with  fire  of  dread  — 
And  runs  to  the  door.  .  .  . 

BEETHOVEN. 
The  portals  wide  are  thrown! 

Music. 

The  guest  goes  in.     "  'Neath  that  mysterious  cloak 
What  bearest  thou — perdition's  or  glory's  key?" 


DEOTYMA  349 

'Twas  thus  the  soul  in  trembling  accents  spoke. 

He  answered:  "What  wouldst  thou  choose  —  oh,  come 

with  me 

On  a  journey  toward  Fame's  beckoning  light; 
To  a  rehearsal  on  the  planet  —  come  to-night." 
With  feeling  of  regret  the  heavenly  choir  yearn, 
Spirits  at  the  portal  hold  her  and  repeat 
"Oh,  as  thou  leavest  us  —  say  wilt  thou  return  — 
Wilt  ever  return?" 

BEETHOVEN. 

Amid  the  voices  sweet 

I  distinguish  one  .  .  .  'tis  innocent  as  yet  — 
Pure  young  soul,  with  sad  complaint  I  hear  it  dwell 
With  weeping  on  the  farewell  strophes  —  her  farewell 
To  Heaven  as  though  she  and  death  had  met! 

Music. 

Because  he  who  is  born  for  one  world,  ever  dies 
For  another,  with  tears  and  sighs. 

(Long  silence.} 

BEETHOVEN. 

Oh,  winged  sweetheart!  perchance  that  soul  no  more 
Was  young?     Perchance  from  Eternity's  dim  spheres 
Too  many  times  that  road  she  had  traveled  o'er, 
Or  it  may  be  sad  forebodings  caused  those  fears? 
Such  forebodings  like  sad  memories  seem  to  be. 

Music. 

Perhaps  you  guess  aright. 

(Silence.) 

But  list!  life  does  not  wait: 

The  soul  still  with  fond  complaint  against  its  fate 
Sinks  in  the  embraces  of  its  Destiny. 
He  grasps  and  covers  it  with  its  mantle  fold, 


POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Bears  it  'mid  praise  and  worship  from  Paradise  — 
Behold!  even  worlds  now  from  their  thrones  arise 
By  admiration  and  respect  controlled! 

BEETHOVEN. 

Yes!  let  them  rise,  and  thou,  Destiny,  stern  guide, 
Be  humble.     The  soul  going  where  trials  wait 
Is  greater  than  the  sun  —  than  cherubims  more  great. 
Spectators  these  —  the  soul  strives  in  arena  wild. 
(Long  silence.) 

Music. 

The  soul  through  misty  abysses  falls  to  earth  from  the  skies, 
Drowned  by  night  and  the  silence  far  and  nigh; 

Then  she  slowly  forgets  by  whose  desire  she  downward  flies — 
From  whence  she  came, —  whither  she  goes, —  and  why. 

Awake,  0  soul!  thy  world  is  near; — 'tis  rock  high  and  steep, 
Thrown  out  upon  a  lake  that  has  no  strand, 

And  at  Life's  portals  angel  guards  their  faithful  vigils  keep, 
And  they  take  her  from  Destiny's  stern  hand. 

Two  exiles  from  heaven, —  two  beloved  of  angels  are  they; 

Tis  hard  to  choose  between  them:  — one  so  fair, 
The  sunny  love, —  and  the  other  eternal  pain  .  .  .  Alvvay 

When  they  go  they  go  together  ev'rywhere. 

Though  the  young  soul  knows  them  not  by  sight,  yet  it  comes 

to  lie 

And  dream  upon  their  bosoms,  and  the  Muses  sad 
Bring  them  into  this  dark  world; — look!  how  bitter  and  yet 

how  glad; 
They  to  waken  her  with  fiery  kisses  try. 

Advance  stripling  into  life!  then  he  took  at  this  decree 
The  traveling  staff  like  pilgrim  'neath  a  sky 


DEOTYMA.  351 

Dim  with  the  twilight,  gazed  abashed,  saying  What  troubles 

me? 
Vainly  seeking  through  mem'ry  for  reply. 

Where  are  these  lights  without  shadows,  the  truth  that  no 
change  knows? 

And  where  the  lovely  kindred  spirits,  to  whom 
He  bade  a  sad  farewell?  here  the  mist  profounder  grows; 

Yet  still  amidst  the  earth's  intensest  gloom. 

BEETHOVEN  (with  enthusiasm). 

He  will  preserve  his  hope  that  the  light  lives  somewhere  still, 

And  that  he  remembers  her  as  in  a  dream; 
Although  outwardly  bedimmed,  she  exists  in  him,  and  will, 

'Neath  the  guise  of  conscience,  though  accursed  she  may 
•  seem. 

Music. 

He  prepares  for  life's  battle,  armed  with  hope,  against  all  fears, 

As  for  a  dance  with  joy  imagining 
Works  of  might  for  the  world,  arranging  plans  for  coming 

years ; 

But  years  cunningly  disappear.    Scarce  a  young  genius  shows 
Promise  of  bloom  when  time  claims  it  for  its  own; 
Scarcely  has  the  soul  accomplished  aught  when  weary  grown 
To  youth's  Allegro  sings  it  the  sad  close. 

BEETHOVEN. 

And  thou,  too,  art  weary ; —  take  a  rest,  bend  down  thy  brow, 
My  oracle's  words  shall  be  in  notes  enchanted  now. 

(Here  Music  sits  down  on  the  steps  of  the  column  and  begins 
to  entwine  a  ivreath  from  laurel  leaves.  During  this  time 
the  orchestra,  hidden  in  the  grove,  plays  " Allegro"  from 
Beethoven's  Symphony.  After  the  "  Allegro"  is  finished 
Beethoven  lays  doivn  his  pen; —  then  Music  rises.) 


352  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Music. 

Now  the  soul  for  the  first  time  sits  to  rest  beside  the  way, 
Begins  to  look  around  .  .  .  but  by  sadness  is  oppressed; 
Although  nothing  seems  to  pain  her,  what  tortui-es  still  her 

breast? 

BEETHOVEN. 

Thought! 

Music. 

When  she  begins  to  think  endlessly  her  thoughts  hold  sway; 
In  life's  symphony  thought  plays  the  Andante  with  grave 

sound, 

Looking  at  the  world  that  is  shut  closely  all  around: 
Seeing  causes  without  effects,  confession  she  seeks, 
Upon  elements,  books,  mankind,  and  boldly  asks  "  Why?  " 
And  when  she  has  asked  once  o'er  and  o'er,  the  word  she 

speaks 
To  ev'ry  one  and  ev'ry where. 

BEETHOVEN. 
And  who  will  make  reply? 

Music. 

The  people's  answers  differ, —  so  the  mystery  remains, 
And  Nature,  who  her  wonders  so  willingly  explains 
Except  to  this  "Why?"  has  reply  for  everything; — 
Then  to  Destiny  the  soul  turns  with  its  questioning. 
Is  Destiny  responsive?  —  will  this  an  answer  bring? 
See!  she  grows  a  Titian; — so  quickly  soars  the  mind, 
She  sends  herself  ambassador  to  God  from  mankind, 
She  criticises  His  laws,  is  astonished  at  His  sway: — 
But  why  ever  from  these  laws  do  all  things  go  astray? — 
What  light  from  her  country  in  her  conscience  can  she  find? 
Deepest  melancholy  envelops  her. 

BEETHOVEN. 
So  soon. 


DEOTYMA.  353 

Music. 

Now  is  the  dark  hour.  She  is  in  doubt  amid  her  gloom 
As  to  the  aims  of  life  she  has  cherished  long  and  well; 
E'en  dreams  of  eternal  light  these  doubts  dispel. 

Ah!  she  keeps  silence  and  even  ceases  asking  "Why?" 

(Music  sits  down  again  on  the  steps  of  the  column  and  con- 
tinues wreathing  the  laurel  crown.) 

BEETHOVEN. 

I  will  take  this  moment  while  she  is  speaking  not 
To  enchant  in  notes  the  mystery  of  human  thought. 

(He  grasps  the  pen  and  writes.  During  that  time  the  orchestra 
is  performing  the  "  Andante"  of  the  Symphony.  With  the 
finishing  of  the  "  Andante  "  Beethoven  also  stops  writing.) 

BEETHOVEN  (laying  down  his  pen). 

Here  is  the  "  Andante,"  bitterly  solemn  in  truth, 
I  am  as  a  player  who  counts  an  Enchantment's  cost.     While 
I  am  listening  to  it  I  cannot  in  sooth 
Forbear  indulging  in  a  bitter  smile. 

Music  (rising). 

You  are  not  alone  who  thus  smiles.     Nay ! 
Every  one  will  thus  smile  who  questions  truth  too  near, 

Ev'ry  thinker  bears  with  him  a  sign  of  sneer; 
As  an  interrogation  mark  it  stands  for  aye ! 

(After  a  while.) 

Terrible  soul's  voice  with  irony  rife; 

Her  pois'nous  tears  e'en  through  a  stone  will  go; 
In  the  grand  symphony  of  life 

She  strikes  the  frantic  Scherzo. 
23 


354       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

BEETHOVEN  (grasps  the  pen). 

Wait  ...  I  will  write   Scherzo.     The  serpents  beneath  my 

pen 
Already  with  venom  hiss.  .  .  . 

Music. 

Hold  on  a  moment  then, 

In  the  soul  open  to  the  great 
And  pure  light  of  inspiration  this  sneering  may  flit 

With  simple  innocence,  but  it 
Should  ne'er  be  placed  on  a  page  separate. 

(Beethoven  pushes  his  pen  and  paper  aside.     A  short  silence.) 

Music  (continues). 

Now  the  pilgrim  of  life  behold! 

Having  thrown  the  bitter  smile  from  his  heart 
He  rose,  by  longing  thought  controlled, 

And  withdrew  into  Mystery's  realms  apart. 
He  was  unconscious  while  his  thought  did  progress, 

Powers  unknown  before  within  him  woke  to  life; — 
Of  life's  problems  from  this  day  he  will  think  less, 

And  he  will  live  better,  and  more  free  from  strife. 
(With  growing  warmth.) 

Man  wonders  with  how  many  changes  fraught 
Life  seems,  when  on  it  his  full  vision  brought. 

He  touches  it.     The  world  is  different  far! 
The  rock  of  grief  is  harder  than  the  thought, 

But  its  flowers  of  pleasure  more  fragrant  are. 
The  brave  soul  raised  its  head  and  looked  around 

As  'twere  her  element  herself  she  bore. 
Symphony!  the  brassy  trumpet  sound;  — 

Life's  a  battle  evermore. 

See  the  man  of  destiny;  his  touch  the  keys  obey; 
He  bears  the  standai'd  away! 


DEOTYiMA.  355 

BEETHOVEN  (sadly). 

And  sometimes  loses  standards. 

Music  (with  a  smile). 

All  the  suns  with  their  trembling  rays, 

Every  angel  with  a  beating  heart, 
From  the  skies  with  interest  lean  and  gaze 
On  man  in  life's  struggle  bearing  a  part. 

(Draws  back  as  if  in  fear.) 
It  is  a  dreadful  sight!  ...  Oh!  what's  doing  there? 

The  angels  are  pale,  .  .  .  the  suns  no  more  are  bright.  .  .  . 
Too  many  temptations!  —  the  spirit  in  despair.  .  .  . 
Man,  before  half  fallen,  .  .  .  now  is  fallen  quite! 
Do  you  hear  his  moanings? 

BEETHOVEN  (with  warmth). 

God!  wilt  Thou 

Arrest  the  fate  that  overwhelms  him  in  this  hour? 
Will  no  hand  rise  to  his  assistance  now? 

(Reproachfully.) 
Lives  there  for  him  no  saving  power? 

Music  (raising  her  hand). 

Only  one  power  can  help  him  to  rise, 

Of  which  hell  is  jealous.     Above 
A  vision  bright  appears  from  out  the  skies;  — 

That  vision  is  beauteous  LOVE! 

BEETHOVEN  (gets  up  and  raises  his  hand). 

Above  all  his  misfortunes  now  is  he! 

That  which  brought  him  to  the  world  and  nursed  him  too 
Resurrects  him  now.     In  life's  symphony, — 'tis  true, — 

Love  is  a  hymn  of  victory ! 
0  Love !  thou  mother  of  faith !     'Tis  through  thee 


356      POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Man  agrees  with  truths  of  eternal  birth; 
He  who  but  once  loved  truly  on  this  earth 
From  doubt  of  Heaven's  joy  is  free. 

(He  becomes  thoughtful,  sits  doivn  sloivh),  and  leans  his  head 
on  his  hands.  After  a  short  interval  of  silence  he  raises  his 
head,  as  if  awakened  from  a  dream.) 

BEETHOVEN  (continues). 
And  the  pain? 

Music. 

Pain?     It  is  not  needful  that  a  mortal 
Call  for  it  from  Heaven's  portal. 
He  will  find  it  here. 

BEETHOVEN. 

Every  day  it  will  appear, 
In  every-day  tear,  in  his  daily  bread, 
In  that  which  is  changing,  in  that  which  is  dead; 
But  it  is  most  fearful  with  conscience  in  its  face. 
(Long  silence.) 

Music. 

Up  to  this  time  man  everything  has  tried, 
But  since  in  Love  sublime  harmony  he  perceived 
He  ends  all  there.     His  symphony's  run  achieved 

Great  Finale  and  is  glorified! 

In  life  it  is  long  and  difficult  to  bear, 
But  the  end  receives  its  reward  ev'rywhere. 
The  longer  the  years  the  stiller  are  they  grown, 
And  remembrances  speak  in  the  loudest  tone. 

Some  weep  bitter  tears,  that  bitter  tears  succeed; 

Others  in  prayer  watch  beside  the  dear  ones'  tomb. 
The  days  flit  away,  .  .  .  time  flies  with  the  greatest  speed, 

And  the  soul  hastes  on  to  the  gaol  of  its  doom. 


DEOTYMA.  357 

It  clasps  it,  and  with  mantle  o'er  it  spread 
It  raises  it  by  funeral  bells'  deep  tones, 
And  while  on  its  way  worlds  rise  from  their  thrones 

With  emotions  of  expectation  and  dread. 

Then  Destiny  before  the  heavenly  gates 
Halted.     Now  it  knocks,  but  not  alone  it  waits. 
This  time  it  brings  with  its  return  a  soul. 

BEETHOVEN. 

Happy  spirits!     Will  you  not  open  the  door? 
Then,  my  beloved  one,  tell  me. 

Music. 

No.     As  to  this 

I  am  silent.     This  laurel  for  witness  I  take. 
I  promised  to  reveal  life  by  song,  but  more 
Beyond  that  is  a  problem 

That  death  can  break. 

BEETHOVEN  (folding  his  hands). 

I  will  reveal  God's  mystery  so  great! 
Even  if  o'er  an  abyss  the  spirit  stood, — 
Even  if  love  and  pain  followed  her.     They  would 

Of  themselves  ope  the  heavenly  gate! 

(He  grasps  the.  pen  and  writes.  Music  sits  down  on  the  steps 
of  the  column  and  finishes  the  icreath.  During  this  time 
the  orchestra  plays  SCHERZO  and  the  FINALE  of  the  symphony. 

As  the  last  strains  of  the  FINALE  die  away  BEETHOVEN  throws 
his  pen  aside  and,  weary,  hides  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
falls  into  a  deep  reverie. 

Music  arises,  and  ivith  the  laurel  ivreath,  ivhich  is  finished, 
croivns  BEETHOVEN'S  bust  on  the  column.  She  looks  once 
more  upon  BEETHOVEN,  and,  throwing  him  a  hand-kiss,  dis- 
appears.) 


358       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


BERWlfrSKI. 

RICHARD  YINCENT  BERWINSKI  was  born  in  Great 
Poland  in  1819;  finished  his  education  at  the  Lyceum 
of  Leszno,  and  at  the  Universities  of  Breslau  and  Ber- 
lin. He  was  for  a  long  time  a  contributor  to  several 
periodicals  published  in  Great  Poland,  and  was  himself 
the  editor  of  a  daily  journal  at  Posen. 

In  1845,  while  traveling  toward  Galicia,  he  was  ar- 
rested, and  thrown  into  a  political  prison  at  Wisnica, 
where  he  was  kept  for  a  year,  and  being  given  up  to 
Prussia  he  was  again  imprisoned  at  Berlin.  In  1847 
he  was  released,  and  in  1848  made  a  member  of  the 
National  Committee.  In  1852  he  was  sent  to  the  Diet 
in  Berlin. 

Leaving  Polish  soil  he  went  to  Turkey,  and  from 
1856  served  as  an  officer  in  the  Ottoman  army,  under 
the  command  of  Sadyk  Pasha  (Michael  Czaykowski). 
He  wrote  a  work  entitled  ' '  The  Book  of  Light  and 
Illusions;"' "The  Book  of  Life  and  Death;"  "The 
Last  Confession  at  the  Old  Church;"  "The  Tower  of 
the  Mice;"  "Don  Juan  of  Posen;"  "Wawel;"  "Cra- 
cow;" "Duma  of  a  Polish  Soldier  in  the  Turkish 
Army  in  February,  1863."  Part  I  of  his  poems  was 
published  at  Posen,  1844,  and  Part  II  at  Brussels  the 
same  year;  also  in  the  "Collective  Almanack,"  1854, 
and  in  "The  Friend  of  the  People"  at  Leszno  and 
Posen.  Still  another  was  published  at  Breslau,  1840. 

He  died  toward  the  end  of  1879  at  Constantinople. 
Berwinski  was  a  man  of  high  poetic  talents,  and  a  true 
lover  of  his  country. 


BERWINSKL  359 


THE   EXILE'S   SONG. 

Within  my  mother's  orchard  wide 

The  rose  and  lily  drank  the  dews, 
Field  poppies  and  blue-bottles  vied 

To  blend  with  sweeter  flowers  their  hues. 

The  nightingale  poured  out  its  song 

In  many  a  sad,  harmonious  note; 
The  brooklet's  murmur  all  day  long 

Through  dream  and  waking  seemed  to  float. 

I  wandered  here  in  childhood's  hours, 

To  me  a  paradise  it  seemed; 
Lightly  I  ran  amid  the  flowers 

Or  on  the  earth's  soft  carpet  dreamed. 

But  now,  a  homeless  refugee 

Of  bitter  fate,  I  feel  the  smart ; 
Footsore  I  wander  wearily, 

And  bleeding  is  my  exiled  heart. 

I  think  how  there  at  home  to-day, 

The  poppies  and  the  cornflowers  bloom; 

Perchance  the  roses  breathe  away 

Their  sweetness  on  my  mother's  tomb. 

Shall  I  again  those  blossoms  see, 

Or  kiss  my  mother  as  of  yere? 
A  voice  prophetic  answers  me: 

Thou  shalt  behold  thy  home  no  more. 

ON   THE   LAKE   GOPLO.* 

Amid  my  native  waters  deep, 
From  a  shattered  bark, 

*  A  large  lake  in  Prussia-Poland,  about  thirty-five  miles  long  and 
eleven  miles  broad,  by  the  cities  Strzelno  and  Kruszwice. 


360       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Among  the  billows  wild  I  leap 
Into  the  distance  dark. 

Around,  above  me,  boundless  space, 

I  swim  in  distance  vast; 
In  all  the  world  I  hold  no  place, 

My  thoughts  are  on  the  Past. 

Above  me  moon  and  stars  are  bright, 

Here  is  a  somber  grave; 
Dark  doubt  enshrouds  me  with  its  night, 

Corpses  are  'neath  the  wave. 

Where  do  I  swim  I  ask 2   Oh,  where? 

With  pain  to  earth  I  bend; 
A  living  corpse  am  I — Despair 

And  Hope  my  bosom  rend. 

Where'er  I  go  Hope's  falcon  goes, 
Oh,  bark  swim  safe  and  sure! 

If  I  must  die  I  would  repose 
In  native  waters  pure. 

In  elements  of  native  waves 

Fly  my  good  bark  away; 
Oh,  rise,  ye  corpses,  from  your  graves, 

All  in  my  star's  dim  ray. 

Rise,  and  sepulchral  fragrance  send 
Through  the  chill  air  to  me, 

And  star  above  thy  glory  lend 
That  I  some  hope  may  see. 

The  star  now  shines;  the  corpses  fast 

Beneath  my  feet  arise  — 
The  corpse  majestic  of  the  Past 

Most  fearful  in  my  eyes. 


BEKWINSKI.  361 

He  rises,  looks,  and  all  around 

Now  one  by  one  they  stand; 
Deep  saber-cut  and  bullet-wound, 

And  paws  of  lion's  grand. 

Dread  shapes  and  colors  strange  are  these, 

Many  a  gory  spot; 
The  dreadful  masks  my  life-blood  freeze  — 

Avaunt!  I  know  you  not. 

Away  from  me!  for  my  sad  heart 

Is  pierc'd  with  icy  pain; 
Bid  all  your  threat'ning  looks  depart, 

And  never  come  again. 

Take  them  away,  and  then  to  me 

Direct  your  steps,  I  plead; 
Why  gaze  you  sadly,  angrily, 

Nor  my  entreaties  heed? 

Lions  of  life  eternal  —  vain 

I  call  on  you  to  go. 
From  me  what  do  you  wish  to  gain? 

Speak  quick!  for  I  would  know. 

Give  back  our  household  gods  once  more  — 

The  countless  hosts  that  knew 
Our  might  and  strength  in  days  of  yore  — 

'Tis  this  we  ask  of  you. 

They  bent  to  us  and  prayed  for  us, 

O  horror!  can  it  be? 
Our  people  sunk  in  waters  thus, 

Poor  reptiles  tread  to  see. 

Our  people?  shine  with  hopeful  gleam, 
0  star  in  clouded  sky! 


362       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

All  household  gods  a  trouble  seem  — 
Fly  fast,  my  bark  —  oh,  fly ! 

Oh,  shine  my  star!  'tis  not  for  me 
'Neath  native  surge  to  lie; 

Old  household  gods  may  perish,  we 
Immortals  cannot  die. 

Hark!  their  sepulchral  voices  hear 
In  hollow,  humming  sound; 

In  fault  they  think  me  —  far  and  near 
With  frowns  they  gather  round. 

0  household  gods!  what  is  your  want? 

And  corpse,  what  is  your  will? 
Avaunt!  old  gods,  and  corpse  avaunt! 

0  bark,  fly  faster  still! 

Onward,  onward,  without  delay; 

The  old  god,  what  is  he? 
But  weak  and  old  —  he  need  not  stay 

To  bar  youth's  pathway  free. 

Against  the  surge  in  crowds  they  swim; 

My  words  are  all  in  vain  — 
Then  peace  be  with  you  phantoms  grim, 

These  tears  and  all  this  pain. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  you  wish  to  stem 
Time's  stern,  relentless  tide, 

Since  fate  does  to  this  world  condemn 
By  laws  that  fix'd  abide. 

0  ancient  god !  forgetfulness 
No  hope  for  thee  can  lend; 

New  light  of  faith  that  shines  to  bless 
Descend  on  me  —  descend. 


BEEWINSKI.  363 

Night's  shadows  all  shall  vanish  fast 

If  thou  descend  on  me ; 
And  ere  another  day  is  past 

The  people  sav'd  shall  be. 

'Twas  thus  I  spoke,  and  like  a  knell 

I  heard  a  moaning  rise; 
On  the  grave  of  the  god  there  fell 

Two  tear-drops  from  my  eyes. 

Oh,  lightly  may  the  earth,  I  pray, 

Lie  on  thee  evermore; 
So  shines  my  morn  a  little  way 

And  sweet  salvation's  shore. 


364       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

I 

MALCZEWSKI. 

ANTHON  MALCZEWSKI  is  one  of  the  brightest  stars  in 
the  horizon  of  Polish  literature.  It  is  a  curious  fact  in 
the  annals  of  Polish  poetry  that,  without  any  previous 
efforts,  unaided  by  anyone,  unheralded  by  any  poetical 
composition  of  his  own,  he  sprung  into  celebrity  at 
once,  simultaneously  with  his  "Marya"  (Mary).  He 
stood  at  once  as  a  prophet  emerging  apparently  from  a 
dark  and  unlearned  crowd.  He  sent  upon  the  world  a 
poem  of  great  power  and  beauty,  founded  upon  a  tra- 
dition of  great  significance,  and  left  the  crowd  without 
being  understood  or  appreciated  by  them.  "Marya" 
is  a  poem  of  Ukraine,  and  there  is  not  now  a  single 
dissenting  voice  in  the  praise  of  that  extraordinary 
poetical  production,  replete  with  so  many  beauties  and 
touching  incidents;  the  boldness  of  expression  strangely 
commingling  with  unsurpassed  pathos  and  faultless  ver- 
sification placed  him  at  once  in  the  first  rank  of  the  most 
distinguished  Polish  poets. 

The  plot  of  "Marya"  is  this:  A  proud  old  Palatine 
betroth s  his  son  to  the  daughter  of  a  friend,  and,  as  is 
usual  in  such  cases,  neglects  to  ascertain  previously 
the  mind  of  the  young  count.  The  son  falls  in  love 
with  the  daughter  of  a  noble  of  inferior  rank,  be- 
tween whom  and  his  own  father  a  hereditary  hatred 
exists.  The  father  of  "Marya,"  seeing  that  his  daugh- 
ter's happiness  is  at  stake,  reluctantly  overcomes  his 
ancient  enmity,  and  allows  a  marriage  to  take  place  be- 
tween the  young  couple,  which,  though  concealed  for  a 
long  time,  is  finally  discovered  by  the  old  Palatine. 
He  hides  his  burning  anger  under  the  mask  of  appro- 
bation, and  invites  Marya  to  his  castle.  His  son  is 


MALCZEWtiKL  365 

then,  in  company  with  Marya's  father,  sent  to  repel  the 
invasion  of  the  Pagan  Tartars  at  some  distance  from 
the  castle.  On  his  return,  after  having  conquered  the 
enemy,  he  finds  that  his  wife  is  murdered.  He  deserts 
his  home,  and  is  never  heard  of  more. 

This  remarkable  poem  created  but  a  feeble  impres- 
sion at  first.  The  critics  of  the  day  alleged  against  the 
poet  that  his  taste  was  unrefined,  and  that  the  way  he 
chose  was  a  way  leading  only  to  error,  but  it  was  not 
long  before  these  impressions  were  dispelled  and  utterly 
annihilated. 

This  poem,  woven  on  the  circulating  local  tradition, 
was  written  in  a  bold  and  artistic  style;  the  scenes  and 
incidents  painted  as  with  the  brush  of  a  great  master. 
Here  we  see,  for  the  first  time,  on  the  Russian  back- 
ground, led  out  into  sight  two  figures,  after  the  ancient 
Polish  fashion — the  ideals  of  Polish  feelings,  truly  na- 
tional, presented  as  if  taken  living  from  the  history, 
sinking  rapidly  into  the  past, — an  apparition,  as  it  were, 
of  a  Polish  Palatine, — the  ideal  of  a  Polish  aristocrat — 
and  a  sword-bearer,  the  father  of  Mary,  also  an  ideal  of 
a  Polish  nobleman.  Mary,  again,  is  the  ideal  of  a 
Polish  young  woman  who,  with  a  pure  and  lofty  feel- 
ing, unites  resolution  and  extraordinary  courage,  then 
adding  to  it  the  thought  of  the  invasion  of  the  Tar- 
tars, taken  from  the  very  heart  of  the  annals  of  Polish 
history  —  magnificent  picfure  of  Ukraine  and  its  de- 
lightful scenery,  all  brought  out  in  almost  tangible 
shapes  and  embellished  by  the  deepest  feelings  and 
loftiest  thoughts  and  nicest  shadings,  makes  one  think 
that  Lord  Byron,  whom  Malczewski  knew  personally, 
had  exerted  powerful  influence  over  the  Polish  poet. 
In  "Marya"  there  is  a  tearing  of  the  spirit  to  pieces 
by  strokes  of  adversity  and  grief  that  characterize  some 


366  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

of  Lord  Byron's  poems;  but  still  it  is  not  the  grief  of  an 
English  lord,  but  of  a  deep  and  earnest  thought  over  the 
misfortunes  of  native  land,  and  a  reecho  of  the  intense 
feeling  and  the  sorrows  of  Ukraine's  vast  steppes,* 
all  this  being  brought  out  in  the  beautiful  Ukraine. 
With  poetical  feeling  and  native  qualifications  he  was, 
as  it  were,  permeated  by  surrounding  nature;  he 
dreamed  himself  into  the  local  traditions  and  souvenirs, 
and  turned  their  native  hues  into  poetry  —  and  there 
we  see  the  first  strong  impressions  of  romanticism. 
This  great  poem  breathes  with  pure  feelings  of  religion 
and  morality,  overspread  with  the  expression  of  plaint- 
ive and  painful  sadness  which  the  readers  see  through 
their  tears.  Mishaps  and  disappointments  of  life  are 
the  intrinsic  strength  and  charm  of  the  poem.  Fresh- 
ness, coloring,  and  almost  tangible  plasticity  are  the  ex- 
ternal qualities.  A  strange  historical  reverie,  introduced 
for  the  first  time  into, Polish  poetry  by  Malczewski, 
became  the  characteristic  of  other  poets;  not  only* the 
mystery  of  the  scene  which,  besides  the  hidden  objects 
and  gradual  unfolding  adds  to  it  a  great  power,  but 
also  the  avoiding  of  the  elucidation,  as  if  on  purpose, 
by  scattering  the  particulars,  and  fantastic  visions 
are  interspersed  throughout  this  renowned  produc- 
tion. When  this  poem  was  once  understood  it  spread 
throughout  the  nation  by  several  successive  editions, 
and  finally  became  so  popular  it  mattered  not  where  a 
Pole's  foot  trod  he  could  not  do  without  it.  "  Marya  " 
is  written  after  the  manner  of  an  epopee.  Malczewski 
wrote  also  other  compositions  in  verse:  "A  Journey 
to  Mont  Blanc;"  "The  Carnival  of  Warsaw;"  "To 
Julia;"  "To  Peter  and  Paul."  Besides,  he  wrote  the 
tales  of  "Iphigenia,"  "Atenais,"  and  "The  Journey. " 
*  Prairies. 


MALCZEWSKI.  367 

Malczewski  was  born  in  1T92,  in  the  province  of 
Volhynia,  and  came  from  a  distinguished  family.  His 
father  was  a  general  in  the  Polish  army.  He  received 
his  initiatory  education  at  Dubno,  and  then  went  to 
college  at  Krzemieniec,  where  he  attended  lectures  on 
mathematics  by  Joseph  Czech.  In  1811  he  entered 
the  army,  and  in  a  few  years  became  quite  distinguished 
as  engineer  under  Col.  Malet;  but  breaking  one  of  his 
legs,  he  in  1816  left  the  ranks.  During  the  following 
five  years  he  gave  himself  up  to  literary  pursuits,  and 
traveled  in  France,  Switzerland,  Italy  and  Germany. 
In  1824  he  returned  to  Warsaw,  but  the  experience  of 
living  in  a  large  city  taught  him  to  appreciate  the  mode 
of  life  that  was  not  degenerate ;  hence  he  quitted  Warsaw 
and  rented  an  estate,  the  village  of  Hrynow,  in  the  county 
of  WJodzimierz,  and  thus  avoiding  noisy  amusements 
and  social  gatherings,  he  gave  up  his  time  to  literature. 

An  interesting  love  aifair  between  himself  and  a 
Polish  lady  by  the  name  of  Ruczynska  forms  quite  an 
episode  in  the  distinguished  poet's  life.  Having  for  a 
long  time  lived  in  a  state  of  magnificence  he  finally,  by 
being  very  generous  to  those  who  needed  his  assistance, 
became  reduced  in  circumstances.  He  died  in  1826. 

His  "Marya"  went  through  thirty  different  edi- 
tions; the  last  was  published  (illustrated)  by  Zupafiski  in 
1865.  The  poem  was  translated  into  several  languages. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  "  MARYA." 

The  Kozak*  passing  through  the  ravine  wide, 
Where  only  howling  wolves  and  Tartars  hide, 

*  Here  Kozak  does  not  mean  Cossack,  a  Russian  soldier,  but  a 
sort  of  an  attache  of  noblemen  in  Ukraine,  and  we  may  add  in  the 
provinces  of  Podolia  and  Volhynia.  These  Kozaks  were  generally 
selected  from  the  comeliest  and  best  developed  young  peasants,  and 
being  trained  as  messengers  to  duty,  were,  as  occasions  required,  sent 


368     POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Approached  the  statue  where  dark  shadows  throw 

Likeness  of  specters  buried  long  ago ; 

Took  off  his  cap,  and  thrice  the  cross  he  signed, 

Then  with  his  message  hastening  like  the  wind 

Upon  his  snorting  horse  away  he  flew 

Where  Buh  glides  on,  a  streak  of  silvery  blue. 

As  the  bold  Kozak  fleetly  rides  along 

He  hears  the  hidden  foes  that  round  him  throng; 

But  his  good  horse,  as  though  he  understands, 

Bears  him  through  blooming  fields  and  thistly  lands. 

Naught  speeds  more  swiftly  underneath  the  sun ; 

Like  to  an  arrow  from  the  bow  he  wings, 

His  head  bent  low  his  horse's  neck  upon. 

And  through  wild  causeways  rush  these  desert  kings, 

Rider  and  steed —  two  forces  blent  in  one. 

Thus  loses  Waciaw*  all  —  no  more  to  find 

His  happiness  and  faith  in  human  kind. 

He  cannot  wake  his  loved  one  from  her  rest  — 

She  who  was  all  to  him  of  dear  and  best; 

Whose  noble  spirit  and  angelic  grace 

Could  shed  illusion  over  falsehood's  face. 

How  dark  her  death  makes  all  the  world  appear! 

Alone  he  strays,  as  in  a  desert  drear, 

Or  by  the  statue  on  his  loved  one's  tomb 

He  mourns  the  malice  that  has  wrought  her  doom 

And  chased  all  tenderness  from  out  his  soul. 

One  bitter  thought  therein  holds  dark  control  — 

even  to  distant  places  with  important  dispatches  and  messages  of  all 
sorts,  also  carrying  letters  to  and  from  postofflces.  They  had  a  pecu- 
liarly picturesque  dress,  and  were  the  heroes  of  many  interesting 
love  affairs  among  the  pretty  girls  of  those  beautiful  p'rovinces. 
Each  Kozak  had  a  fine  horse  and  a  splendid  equipment,  including 
a  "  ivihnyka"  a  sort  of  a  short  whip  made  of  several  strands  of 
leather  woven  together,  and  a  fancy  handle.  These  Kozaks  were 
also  the  heroes  of  many  love  songs  and  Dunikas,  and  form  an  inter- 
esting chapter,  especially  in  the  history  of  the  Ukraine. 
*  Waclaw,  the  betrothed  of  Mary ;  pronounce  Vatz-lav. 


MALCZEWSKI.  369 

"  Why  did  I  leave  her  to  another's  care?  " 
When  in  the  pallid  face  that  greets  him  there 
He  reads  of  all  the  struggles  she  has  known. 
Then  deep  reproaches  make  his  heart  their  own. 
Of  her  destruction  and  his  own,  the  cause, 
Before  this  thought  his  life's  pulsations  pause  — 
Then  in  his  hands  he  hides  his  face  to  weep. 

This  mood  is  over  soon,  but  all  too  deep 
The  wound  within  him  festers,  poison- frought; 
Leaves  in  his  once  exalted  soul  a  thought  — 
Shared  by  the  exiles  —  that  will  never  sleep. 

This  noble  youth,  is  he  the  earth's  disgrace? 
Ah!  rather  ask  wherefore  hath  goodness  place 
Here,  where  all  good  with  evil  is  defiled, 
Where  death  of  parents  profits  to  the  child, 
Where  love  of  fellow  beings  is  assumed 
By  those  with  envy  of  their  joy  consumed. 
Where  lofty  roles  and  aspirations  fail, 
Revealing  hypocrisies  'neath  the  veil, 
And  where  but  few  the  faithful  hearts  that  blend 
In  love's  divine  ecstasy  to  end. 

In  describing  "Marya"  the  poet  says: 

Though  young,  the  winds  of  earthly  pain 
Have  cast  their  breath  upon  her  soul, 
And,  like  the  weary  autumn  blasts 
That  o'er  the  earth  in  anger  roll 
And  wither  flowers  within  the  grove, 
Have  robbed  her  early  hopes  of  love ! 

Within  her  beaming  eye  no  more 
Conflicting  war  of  thought  we  see; 
The  flame  that  burned  from  lamp  of  love 
And  shone  so  happily  on  me 
Now  beams  not,  shows  not  e'en  one  spark, 
Though  with  its  smoke  her  brow  is  dark. 
24 


GOSZCZYNSKI. 
370 


GOSZCZYNSKI.  371 


GOSZCZYNSKI. 

SEVERIN  GOSZCZYNSKI  is  different  in  qualifications 
as  a  poet  from  other  bards  of  the  Ukraine.  The  choice 
of  his  genius  was  the  more  gloomy  side  of  her  history 
and  the  inherent  qualities  of  her  nature.  It  is  the 
creative  spirit  leading  vice  to  a  feast  of  revenge.  Dark 
clouds  of  fantasy  ever  avoiding  the  serene  sky  and 
searching  everywhere  charms  overcast  with  dismal- 
ness,  are  his  characteristics.  Wild  transports  of  pas- 
sion, battles,  treason  and  murders  are  the  usual  themes 
of  his  poesy.  His  pictures  and  figures  are  not  put 
forth  as  the  ideals  of  a  mere  illusion,  as  Zaleski's;  not 
in  any  melancholy,  dissolving  itself  over  a  landscape, 
as  in  Malczewski,  but  they  are  thrown  on  the  back- 
ground of  wild  nature  with  a  complete  truthfulness 
and  reality.  Such  elements  he  has  introduced  in  his 
poetry  with  impassioned  delight,  and  yet  he  does  not 
offend  aesthetic  feeling  nor  morality.  We  have  no 
poet  who  could  excel  him  in  painting  so  truthfully  the 
scenery  of  nature  —  nor  one  who  could  more  admire 
and  appreciate  its  beauties.  His  genius  is  still  more 
to  be  appreciated  when  we  learn  the  fact  that  it  is  not 
given  to  one  and  the  same  individual  to  excel  in  two 
different  things, —  to  fathom  the  depths  of  passion  and 
to  comprehend  the  grand  and  sublime  respiration  of 
nature.  "The  Castle  of  Kaniow "  represents  scenes 
of  bloody  adventures  which  filled  the  whole  of  Ukraine 
with  horror  and  pain.  Here  the  poet  brought  together 
all  the  horrible  events  of  that  painfully  memorable 
epoch.  He  dramatized  this  tale,  interweaving  into  it 
incidents  at  which  the  soul  is  horrified,  not  at  all  re- 


372       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

lieved  by  introduction  of  any  of  the  softening  influ- 
ences of  heroic  love  at  least  burning  faintly  in  the 
depth  of  grief  and  revenge.  He  delineated,  however, 
the  appalling  reality,  and  placed  its  pictures  in  the 
sight  of  his  own  poetical  fastasy,  illumed  only  by  a 
flame  of  a  night's  conflagration.  Yet  these  wild  and 
terrible  beauties  are  in  fact  the  true  beauties  of  a  crea- 
tive artist,  —  the  conception  of  the  poem  and  its  finish 
of  genius  —  but  perhaps  its  most  striking  features  con- 
sist in  the  prominence  of  figures  and  characters,— 
uncommon  individuality.  Only  great  mental  powers 
could  produce  a  poem  like  it. 

Goszczynski's  poetic  spirit  is  strong,  inflexible,  deep 
and  fiery;  wide  as  the  river  Dnieper,  and  boundless  as 
the  limitless  steppes:  hence  his  poetic  creations  are 
likenesses  unto  himself.  Occasional  incorrectness  of 
expression  and  the  lack  of  clearness  in  the  elucidation 
of  subjects  is  alleged  against  him,  as  also  great  haste 
and  precipitancy;  but  his  buoyant  spirit  would  not  at 
all  times  submit  to  certain  precisions  in  composition. 
While  soaring  through  his  beloved  Ukraine,  with  its 
beautiful  scenes  engraved  upon  his  heart,  he  breathed 
forth  his  inspirations  untrammeled  by  any  small  obsta- 
cles that  lay  in  his  way.  Ukraine  was  his  mother, 
who  nursed  and  fostered  his  poetic  spirit;  and  it  was 
there  where  he  spent  his  youth. 

When  Goszczynski  came  into  the  Carpathian  Moun- 
tains, and  having  surveyed  their  gigantic  proportions, 
their  scenery  and  their  beauty, —  a  lone  wanderer 
amidst  this  grandeur, —  he  wrote  a  poem,  "  St  John's 
Eve,"  and  proved  himself,  as  in  "The  Castle  of 
Kaniow,"  to  be  a  master  artist  in  the  delineation  of 
nature's  grandeur. 

Severin  had  a  different  task  from  almost  any  other 


GOSZCZYNSKI.  373 

poet  before  him.  He  cut  loose  from  despondency  and 
ideals,  and  was  the  first  to  approach  reality  in  the 
spiritual  world.  He  was  the  forerunner  of  bloody 
and  violent  commotions;  and  Mickiewicz's  "Ode  to 
Youth"  was  a  sort  of  a  political  manifesto;  so  was 
Goszczynski's  "Feast  of  Revenge," — a  watchword 
calling  to  action.  His  "Three  Strings"  is  also  a 
poem  of  great  inspiration,  of  loftiness  and  harmony. 
His  latest  poem,  "The  Mother  of  God,"  turns  the 
heart  and  mind  to  those  blessed  sources  whence  flow 
faith  and  life. 

Besides  these  he  wrote  "The  King  of  the  Castle," 
in  which  he  has  shown  that  even  in  our  prosaic  age 
and  in  every-day  spheres  of  our  lives  there  is  poetry; 
but  the  genius  of  the  poet  is  here  intensified  to  bring 
into  plain  sight  poetry  -where  a  common  eye  cannot 
see  it,  by  representing  objects  in  charming  and  en- 
chanting colors. 

Goszczynski  belongs  to  that  class  of  bards  who, 
whenever  they  strike  with  their  rods  there  immediately 
appear  rich  treasures  of  poesy.  If  he  had  not  written 
anything  else  beside  "The  King  of  the  Castle,"  it 
would  be  enough  testimony  that  the  soul  of  the  author 
possessed  the  power  of  the  enchanter's  wand,  who  has 
awakened  poesy  in  stones,  and,  like  the  second  Moses, 
can  draw  a  spring  of  pure  water  to  refresh  and  strength- 
en the  enfeebled  and  waning  vital  powers  of  the  dying 
Israelites. 

His  talent  of  presenting  his  characters  in  bold  re- 
lief is  worthy  of  great  admiration.  With  the  artistic 
brush  of  a  Shakspeare  he  takes  objects  of  ordinary 
kind  and  lifts  them  up  to  higher  ideal  powers.  In 
some  of  his  poems  we  can  see  a  certain  degree  of  ex- 
aggeration, but  he  is  never  deficient  in  presenting  facts 


374  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

on  the  foundation  of  historical  truths.  His  style,  with 
its  customary  freshness  and  beautiful  coloring,  is  occa- 
sionally unpolished  and  sometimes  rough,  but  it  is 
always  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  and  substance  of 
the  subject.  Goszczynski  comes  out  in  his  poems  not 
only  as  an  artist,  but  he  also  represents  himself  as  a 
political  individuality.  In  all  his  compositions  he  paints 
prominently  his  youth,  his  dreamings,  his  tendencies 
and  action.  From  these  we  can  discern  his  physiognomy. 

Goszczynski  was  born  in  the  city  of  Lince,  in  Uk- 
raine, in  the  year  1803.  From  1811  to  1814  he  at- 
tended school  at  fathers  Piiars;  later  he  attended  the 
school  at  Winnica,  and  in  1816  at  Human;  but  his 
education  was  completed  at  Warsaw,  where  he  formed 
ties  of  mutual  friendship  with  such  distinguished  men 
as  Bohdan  Zaleski,  Louis  Zioikowski,  Maurice  Moch- 
nacki  and  Michael  Grabowski.  With  the  latter  he 
went  to  Vienna  in  1818.  Returning  to  Warsaw,  he 
was  active  in  the  general  national  agitation.  After 
the  downfall  of  the  revolution  of  1831,  toward  the  end 
of  the  year  he  went  to  France,  and  immediately  joined 
the  so-called  sect  of  Towianski  and  became  one  of 
the  most  ardent  of  his  adherents*  He  was  heard  of  from 
France  by  publishing  in  Posen,  in  1842,  a  tale,  "The 
King  of  the  Castle."  In  1864  he  wrote  a  beautiful 
but  somewhat  mystic  poem,  "The  Mother  of  God." 
In  1867,  on  the  4th  of  May,  he  sent  his  oration  to  the 
cemetery  of  Montmorenci,  at  Paris,  on  the  occasion 
of  unveiling  the  monument  erected  to  the  memory  of 
Adam  Mickiewicz.  He  died  in  1879. 

His  works  were  published:  "  The  Castle  of  Ka- 
niow,"  Warsaw,  1828;  "Writings,"  in  three  volumes, 
Breslau,  1852;  "The  King  of  the  Castle,"  Posen, 
1842;  "  The  Mother  of  God,"  1864. 


GOSZCZYNSKI.  375 

CONSCIENCE. 

In  living  body  drest^ 
And  yet  a  corpse,  I  keenly  feel  that  I 
Have  long  outliv'd  myself,  and  vainly  try 

To  find  a  place  of  rest. 
Adverse  my  fate,  most  sad  my  doom; 

I  fear  all  things, —  all  things  fear  me. 
This  radiant  world  to  me  is  as  a  tomb;  — 
A  specter  cloth'd  in  mourning  must  I  be. 
Suffering  as  a  penitent, 

I  roam  the  world  with  weary  feet, 
Where'er  I  turn  some  grief  I  meet. 
Shunned  by  all  things  innocent, 
While  all  most  bitter  'neath  the  sun 
Forever  to  me  closely  clings; 
But  more  than  all  my  sufferings, 
The  phantom-like,  nude  skeleton 
Of  conscience  comes  a  specter  dire. 
'Tis  in  the  way  before  my  eyes; 
It  ever  eats  my  heart  as  fire, 

And  "suffer,  son  of  baseness!"  cries. 

Endure  life  that's  a  living  death; 
One  time  you  courage  lack'd  to  yield  your  breath 

For  your  own  glory  and  for  others'  good. 
Fate  brought  you  to  a  tyrant's  presence  then. 

The  impulse  Heaven  gave  you  you  withstood, 
Though  with  oppression  moan'd  your  fellow  men. 
Eyes  that  the  people's  chains  beheld 
Overflowed  with  pity  mild, 
But  the  brave  heart,  with  throbbing  wild, 
Almost  tore  the  breast  wherein  it  swelled. 
Of  action  then  had  fully  come  the  time; 
Before  you  lay  a  new  and  noble  life, — 
Perhaps  a  tomb, —  lout  freedom's  tomb  sublime, — 
The  famous  bed  of  glory  after  strife; 


376  POETS    AND    POETKY    OF    POLAND. 

Triumph's  bright  wreaths  had  budded  for  you  sweet, 

Hymns  prepared  your  ears  to  greet 

From  grateful  people  you  had  sav'd.     But,  no ! 

You  would  not  let  your  poor  life  go. 

A  cold  ordeal  yours  has  been, 

Yet  dark  and  dreadful  was  your  sin. 

Your  duty  you  neglected.     When  I  cried, 

My  voice  to  stifle  long  you  tried. 

Suffer  yourself, —  struggle  with  dread, — 

Torment  yourself, —  let  your  heart  bleed. 

Since  you'd  not  die  when  there  was  need, 
Die  while  you  are  dead ! 

NEW  YEAR'S   PRAYER. 

God!  who  art  above  the  skies, 
Wanderers  we  come.     Most  wise, 
To  Thee  to  bring 
Our  prayers,  and  sing 
For  our  dear  country's  sake. 

0  God!  our  dear  people  bless, — 
Poland's  sons  save  from  distress. 

Break  thralldom's  chain! 

And  slavery's  bane 
From  our  dear  people  take! 

OGod!     Wilt  Thou  bless  our  land,— 
Bless  Poland's  wandering  band! 

In  freedom  yet 

May  she  forget 
Grief  ere  her  sun  goes  down! 

Bless,  0  Lord,  every  one 
Whom  Poland  claims  her  son, — 

Who  strives  with  zeal 

That  greater  weal 
May  his  loved  country  crown! 


GOSZCZYNSKI.  377 

Oh,  then,  God  of  mercy!  bless 
Our  sad  watches  with  success. 

May  they  be  brief, 

Our  days  of  grief, 
Leave  to  return  —  neyer ! 

Look  upon  our  sore  distress. 
Grand  in  Thy  forgiveness, 

May  rays  divine 

Of  Thy  grace  shine 
Round  our  land  forever! 


POL. 

378 


POL.  379 


POL. 

VINCENT  POL  occupied  the  first  place  among  the 
true  national  poets.  From  the  beginning  of  his  poetic 
career  he  was  a  faithful  exponent  of  experienced  im- 
pressions. Pol  is  an  inspired  traditional  bard,  and  ex- 
quisite delineator  of  quiet  scenes,  of  the  home-hearth, 
of  patriarchal  life,  and  always  a  lover  of  simplicity. 
His  poetical  character  is  apparent  in  his  "Songs  of 
lanusz,"  "Pictures  of  the  Mountaineers,"  in  his 
"Fugitive  Pieces,"  and  "Songs  of  Our  Home."  His 
"  Songs  of  lanusz  "  are  not  only  nicely  adapted  to  the 
present  generation,  but  they  are  that  class  of  composi- 
tions which  future  ages  are  waiting  for  —  because  one 
can  see  in  them  a  whole  living  nation  in  its  past,  the 
present,  and  the  unfolding  of  the  future.  It  has  been 
said  of  him  that,  if  in  the  memory  of  men  all  traces  of 
national  life  were  obliterated,  and  the  little  golden 
book  containing  the  "Songs  of  lanusz"  were  pre- 
served from  destruction,  the  inspired  historian  could 
guess  correctly  the  character  of  Polish  history  that 
was,  and  a  new  bard  could  equally  draw  his  materials 
from  the  same  source,  and  could  reveal  its  future. 

"The  Pictures  from  Life  and  Travels,"  in  which 
the  poet  presents  his  songs  to  the  people  through  a 
smiling  tear,  does  not  fall  behind  the  "Songs  of 
lanusz,"  for,  even  if  their  limits  are  somewhat  nar- 
rower, they  have  enriched  the  people  with  treasures 
hitherto  unknown,  for  they  have  struck  deeper  into  the 
heart  than  anything  of  the  kind  before.  Nothing  is 
more  beautiful  than  these  pictures.  With  a  heart  full 
of  love  Pol  went  into  the  mountains,  looked  over  and 


380       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

around,  guessed  all  and  comprehended  everything.  He 
makes  the  language  of  gigantic  nature  his  own.  "The 
Songs  about  Our  Land  "  are  so  many  diamonds,  which, 
although  glistening  with  various  colors  of  different 
Polish  dialects,  constitute  nevertheless  one  bright  and 
luminous  light  for  every  part  of  the  Fatherland. 

In  writing  these  songs  it  was  the  aim  of  the  poet  to 
demolish  the  walls  that  separated  different  parts  of 
Poland  by  dialects  and  customs  distinguishing  them 
from  one  another;  to  get  them  acquainted  with  each 
other;  lift  their  spirits  above  the  common  level  sur- 
rounding them;  to  place  them  together  on  high,  and 
to  show  them  the  beautiful  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey,  and  to  say  to  them:  "See,  here!  here  is  your 
Canaan! " 

It  can  be  asserted  with  truth  that  stillness  is  the 
most  charming  Muse  of  Pol.  She  always  delights  in 
calm  tranquillity.  She  leads  him  into  the  shades  of 
eternal  woods,  so  that  they  might  tell  him  of  their  im- 
memorial history.  She  takes  him  to  the  ancient  clois- 
ters, where  their  somber  appearance  tells  him  of  events 
of  long  ago.  Wrapped  up  in  reveries  of  charming 
tranquillity  he  sings  in  elegiac  tones  of  fertile  fields,  of 
meadows,  mountains,  and  the  magnificence  of  Polish 
rivers.  These  songs  are  not  vain  Jeremiads,  but  the 
expressions  of  grand  reality,  and  as  they  are  founded 
on  truth  they  only  charm  the  more.  Pol  can,  in  a 
thousand  ways,  present  his  native  land  in  the  most 
interesting  and  beautiful  colors. 

"With  ever-present  freshness  Poi  charms  his  readers 
and  insures  his  compositions  a  deserved  reputation; 
he  knows  how  to  knock  at  the  heart,  and  the  feeling  of 
his  readers  always  approvingly  responds.  His  diction 
is  stamped  with  manly  age,  comporting  with  the  epoch 


POL.  381 

of  which  he  is  a  distinguished  representative.  In  him 
one  finds  a  certain  fullness  of  form  and  vitality  of  in- 
ternal powers,  ever  accompanied  by  a  peculiar  peace 
•of  mind  and  an  equilibrium  between  ardor  and  reflec- 
tion leading  the  spirit  into  a  world  of  calm  resignation. 
His  family  attachments  are  very  strong,  as  is  his  at- 
tachment to  his  fatherland  and  his  native  heath.  In 
his  retrospection  of  the  Past  one  can  see  the  sorrows 
and  mourning  of  an  orphan,  but  without  any  bitter- 
ness, or  any  apparent  feelings  of  deep  affliction. 

Thus  far  Pol  has  passed  his  life  in  literary  pursuits, 
not  only  with  the  greatest  credit  to  himself,  but  also  to 
the  pleasure  and  satisfaction  of  his  countrymen.  Some 
of  his  poems  -are  wrought  with  the  skill  of  a  great 
artist,  for,  frequently  while  reading  them,  it  seems  as 
if  he  sung  them  himself  with  a  harmonious  and  charm- 
ing melody. 

Pol  was  born  in  1807  in  Galicia,  where  his  father 
occupied  a  place  in  the  judicial  department.  He 
was  educated  at  Lublin,  and  after  finishing  the  course 
he  traveled  in  Rhenish  provinces.  After  the  events  of 
1831,  in  which  he  took  an  active  part,  he  returned  to 
his  native  surroundings,  and  then  traveled  over  the 
Carpathian  Mountains,  and  resided  for  some  time 
among  the  mountaineers.  In  1846  he  experienced 
fearful  strokes  of  misfortune.  In  1847  he  organized 
the  chronological  publication  of  the  library  of  Ossoliri- 
skis.  In  1848  he  obtained  a  diploma  of  "Doctor," 
and  became  a  professor  of  geography  in  the  University 
of  Cracow.  He  afterward  retired  to  Lemberg,  where, 
we  suppose,  he  still  resides,  full  of  years  and  honors. 

His  works  were  published  in  Posen,  Cracow,  Leip- 
sic,  "Warsaw,  and  Lemberg.  Among  these  we  can 
mention  "Poetry  of  Yincent  Pol,"  "Mohort,"  an  he- 


382       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

roic  rhapsody,  "  Getting  Home  after  a  Storm,"  "  Pic- 
tures of  tlie  Mountaineers,"  "Song  of  a  Prisoner," 
"Memoirs  of  Winnicki,"  "My  Aunt,"  "The  Word 
and  the  Fame,"  "The  Street  Organ,"  "Songs  of  Our 
Home,"  "A  Tale  without  an  End."  Besides  these 
we  can  mention  his  "Dissertations  on  Natural  Sci- 
ence" and  "Geographical  Lexicon."  "The  Songs  of 
lanusz"  (Piesnie  lanusza)  were  all  written  by  Vincent 
Pol. 


SONG   OF   THE   MOUND. 

"  Leci  li^die  z  drzewa, 
Co  wyroslo  wolne." 

0  tree  nursed  by  freedom! 

Thy  leaves  are  fast  falling; 
Over  the  mound  yonder 

A  lone  bird  is  calling: 
There  never  was  —  never  — 

One  hope  for  thee,  Poland; 
The  dream  is  departed, 

Thy  children  have  no  land! 


POL.  383 


Flame  wraps  ev'ry  village, 

Destroyed  is  each  city, 
And  voices  of  women 

Rise  calling  for  pity. 
From  home  and  from  hearthstone, 

In  swarms  all  are  hasting, 
In  fields  of  their  labor 

The  ripe  grain  is  wasting. 

When  children  of  Warsaw 

Repeated  her  story, 
It  seemed  as  if  Poland 

Would  conquer  with  glory. 
They  fought  through  the  winter 

To  summer's  sad  waning; 
To  welcome  the  autumn 

None  —  none  were  remaining. 

The  struggle  was  ended 

For  hearts  vainly  burning  — 
To  hearths  of  the  native 

No  feet  are  returning. 
Some  earth  cover'd  over, 

In  dungeons  some  languish, 
Some  scattered  in  exile 

Of  home,  dream  in  anguish. 

No  help  comes  from  Heaven,    . 

No  aid  from  hands  human, 
We  weep  o'er  the  waste  lands 

That  flowers  vainly  bloom  in. 
0  dear  country  Poland! 

If  'mid  thy  despoiling 
The  children  who  loved  thee 

Had  taken  while  toiling 


384       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Of  earth  but  a  handful, 
By  fatherland  nourished, 

Rebuilt  on  lost  Poland 
Another  had  flourished! 


LITTLE   STAR. 

0  thou  little  star  that  sparkled 

When  I  first  saw  light, 
Wherefore  has  thy  brightness  darkled? 

Why  so  pale  to-night? 

Wherefore  shin'st  thou  not  as  brightly 

As  when  I,  a  child, 
On  my  mother's  bosom  nightly 

Slumbered,  dream-beguiled? 

Swiftly,  swiftly,  hast  thou  sped  thee 

Through  the  blue  beyond; 
In  bewild'ring  way  hast  led  me 

Ways  I  should  have  shunn'd. 

Through  the  heavens  thou  speedest  gaily, 

Followed  I  thy  lure ; 
Of  my  life  bloom  weaving  daily 

Garlands  premature. 

But  the  roses  in  them  faded  — 

Yellow  grows  my  May; 
With  the  life  so  darkly  shaded 

No  illusions  stay. 

On  the  vistas  spread  before  me 

Look  I  now  through  tears; 
Since  in  heavens  stretching  o'er  me, 

Pale  thy  light  appears. 


POL.  385 


0  ray  little  star!  restore  them 
With  thy  sparkling  rays; 

Still  my  soul  is  longing  for  them, 
For  those  happy  days. 

With  them  yet  I  fain  would  linger, 

Past  delights  I  crave 
Ere  my  fate's  relentless  finger 

Beckons  to  the  grave. 


25 


KONDRATOWICZ. 

(SYKOKOMLA.) 


KONDKATOWICZ.  387 

KONDRATOWICZ. 

(SYROKOMLA). 

Louis  KONDRATOWICZ,  known  under  the  pseudonym 
of  Syrokomla,  is  one  of  those  youthful  poets  who 
in  their  time  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bards  of 
greatest  literary  power.  He  was  equally  a  learned 
scholar  and  a  profound  thinker;  he  did  not  chase  after 
fame  on  account  of  his  originality,  but  as  a  master  of 
the  forms  already  in  existence;  he  adorns  them  with 
the  pearls  of  his  poetic  spirit,  besides  an  uncommon 
ease  and  simplicity  which  throws  charming  surround- 
ings around  the  reader.  The  lyrico-epic  mantle  of  his 
"Chit-Chats  "  is  the  same  as  Pol's  and  Zaleski's,  gush- 
ing from  the  sources  of  inspiration.  To  the  minds  sea- 
soned to  the  glistenings  of  eternal  youth  of  the 
pictures  of  long  ago  his  compositions  proved  welcome 
visitors.  In  this  species  of  poetic  creations  consists 
Syrokomla's  fondness.  From  his  "Chit-Chats,"  in 
which  the  historical  narrator  and  sad-feeling  lyrist 
unites  in  himself  the  different  qualities,  we  find  almost 
in  every  line — in  every  thought, —  fresh  fragrance  of 
nature  and  truth;  we  perceive  everywhere  natural 
colors  of  simplicity,  happily  conceived,  and  so  plainly 
expressed  that  even  a  man  unacquainted  with  the  past 
history  of  his  country  and  literature,  if  he  were  only 
possessed  of  pure  feeling,  would  be  immediately 
initiated  in  Syrokomla's  tenderness  and  simplicity.  As 
are  the  "Chit-Chats"  so  are  also  his  "Fugitive 
Rhymes,"  which  we  find  in  great  variety,  but  always 
marked  by  expressions  of  fidelity  to  nature  and  tender- 


388  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

ness  of  feeling ;  but  when  we  still  further  consider  the 
beautiful  intellectual  principle  and  honest  intentions 
we  still  more  admire  their  intrinsic  value.  There  we 
find  a  true  love  of  God  and  humankind,  honest  and 
appreciative  feeling  of  beauty,  and  a  noble  incitement 
to  everything  that  is  good,  and  always  an  upright 
tendency  toward  progression. 

Perhaps  the  most  feeling  of  all  of  Kondratowicz's 
poetic  creations  is  "The  Death  of  Acernus."  He  took  up 
very  skillfully  the  beautiful  and  yet  very  mournful 
scene  of  the  death  of  the  Polish  poet  Klonowicz(q.  v.), 
of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  poet,  impressed  with 
the  solemnity  of  the  hour,  sings  with  great  feeling  and 
tenderness  the  sad  demise  of  the  bard,  who  in  the  hour 
of  God's  inspiration  rebuked  the  sinners,  and  tried  to 
turn  his  beloved  countrymen  to  truth,  contrition,  and 
repentance. 

Another  great  service  rendered  by  Kondratowicz  to 
Polish  literature  was  the  translation  of  Polish-Latin 
poets,  such  as  Kochanowski,  Sarbiewski,  Szyrnonowicz, 
and  others,  which  were  published  in  his  "  History  of 
Polish  Literature."  Kondratowicz  was  one  of  the 
most  fertile  of  Polish  poets,  and  although  he  did  not 
excel  in  everything,  he  could,  with  his  simplicity  and 
deep  feeling,  draw  tears  from  the  eyes  of  his  readers. 
Enlivened  by  true  poetic  spirit,  he  excelled  almost  all 
of  his  contemporaries  in  the  depth  of  feeling  and  the 
love  of  his  native  land.  In  these  wonderful  "  Chit- 
Chats"  we  hear  the  roar  of  the  old  Lithuanian  forests; 
we  plainly  perceive  the  winding  of  the  grand  blue 
rivers;  we  again  converse  with  our  old  and  noble  an- 
cestors; we  see  the  old  battles,  victories,  and  joyous 
feasts; — in  a  word,  whatever  this  tender  poet  sings 
from  his  pain-stricken  breast  breathes  with  love  of 


KONDRATOWICZ.  389 

everything  that  is  true,  familiar,  and  natural.  In 
peace  and  harmony  with  the  whole  natural  brother- 
hood, he  saw  the  salvation  of  the  Polish  land,  and 
upon  this  he  founded  the  happy  futurity  of  the  people. 
He  rebuked  and  satirized  the  old  foibles  and  chimeras 
of  the  nobility,  and  tried  to  eradicate  these  stumbling 
blocks  so  that  the  people  could  be  once  more  united  by 
the  reciprocal  ties  of  brotherly  affection.  The  chiefest 
stamp  of  Syrokomla's  poetry  is  the  characteristics  of  a 
people  governed  more  by  the  impulses  of  the  heart 
than  the  mind. 

Kondratowicz  was  born  in  1822  at  a  place  called 
Smolkow,  near  the  city  of  Minsk.  He  received  his 
education  from  Fathers  Dominicans  at  Nieswiezo.  At 
twenty-one  he  was  married  and  settled  in  a  rural  dis- 
trict. In  1853,  having  lost  by  death  several  children, 
and  suffering  himself  from  ill-health,  he  went  to  Wilno, 
but  in  a  short  time  returned  again  into  rural  life,  not 
far  from  where  he  resided  formerly,  and  lived  almost 
in  seclusion.  After  a  while  he  gave  his  property  up  to 
his  parents  and  settled  in  the  city  of  Wilno.  In  1858 
he  traveled  in  Great  Poland  and  visited  Cracow,  where 
he  was  received  with  much  cordiality  and  distinction. 
Returning  he  lived  again  at  Wilno,  from  whence  he 
went  to  Warsaw.  Being  overpowered  by  bodily  sick- 
ness and  great  mental  depression,  he  succumbed  to  the 
accumulated  vicissitudes  and  died  the  15th  day  of 
September,  1862. 

All  the  writings  of  this  distinguished  poet  belong  to 
that  class  that  are  truly  popular.  Although  eighteen 
summers  are  passed  away  since  his  death,  the  Polish 
Nation  can  hardly  realize  that  Syrokomla  will  sing  for 
them  no  more  —  forever! 

The  following  are  among  his  works  that  were  already 


390       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

published:  "Chit-Chats,"  and  "Fugitive  Rhymes," 
Wilno,  1853;  "  Baka  Regenerated,"  St.  Petersburg, 
1854;  "John  Demborog,"  Warsaw,  1854;  "Cottage  in 
the  Woods," and  "Margier,"  Wilno,  1855;  '-Death  of 
Acernus,"  1856;  "  Johnnie  Cmentarnik,"  1856;  "The 
Old  Gate,"  "  Easter  Thursday,"  "  Days  of  Penitence 
and  Resurrection,"  1858;  "Wanderings  in  My  Dis- 
trict," "Ulas,"  a  war  pastoral,  1858;  "Sophia,  the 
Princess  of  Sluck,"  1858;  "Poetry  of  the  Last  Hour," 
Warsaw,  1862.  Also  "The  History  of  Polish  Litera- 
ture," and  a  most  beautiful  translation  of  the  songs  of 
Beranger.  All  the  known  and  unknown  writings  of 
Kondratowicz  were  published  by  lagielski,  at  Posen. 

DEATH  OF   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

(Smierd  Slowiku.) 

Shut  in  a  wire  cage  amid  the  great  city's  roar 

Was  once  a  nightingale; 
But  his  desire  to  sing  grew  on  him  more  and  more;— 

So  strong  it  must  prevail. 

Here  is  no  shade, —  no  elder  trees, —  no  hazel  bush 

His  little  head  to  hide; — 
No  sweet  companion  here, —  for  here  no  streamlets  gush 

And  through  the  meadows  glide. 

No  dear  ones  here  to  hear  him  sing,  though  he  should  die 

Amid  his  bursts  of  song. 
In  the  congenial  open  air  he  may  not  fly, 

His  narrow  cage  is  strong. 

Instead  of  gentle  winds  the  wheels' harsh  rumbling  blends 

With  shaking  walls'  loud  jar; 
From  carriages  of  rich  men,  finely  drest,  ascends 

The  dust-cloud  near  and  far. 


KONDRATOWICZ.  391 

Murmurs  of  a  noisy  crowd  instead  of  streamlet  clear 

In  busy,  bustling  ways  ; 
Oh!  where  is  peace  and  quiet?  where  is  freedom  here, 

Prophetic  songs  to  raise? 

His  soft  breast  almost  bursts  ;  now  his  small  head  shakes, 

He  chokes  with  blinding  dust; 
But  born  into  the  world  a  nightingale,  he  makes 

One  effort  —  sing  he  must. 

With  sweet  increasing  melody  he  lifts  his  song, 

Sings  out  his  longings  vain; 
But  soon  his  voice  is  drowned  by  hurrying  throng, 

Intent  but  on  some  gain. 

His  notes  soar  higher  and  higher,  o'er  all  the  noise 

In  musical  despair, 
Thrilled  by  the  memory  of  vanished  joys, 

When  he  was  free  as  air. 

His  little  wings  are  weak,  —  he  flaps  them  all  in  vain  ; 

He  flutters  with  faint  breath  ; 
His  warm  and  tender  heart  just  warbles  one  more  strain, 

But  'tis  the  note  of  Death  ! 


THE   SOLDIER   WANDERER. 
(Na  tern  twardem  szczudle  mojem.) 

With  this  hard  crutch  to  lean  upon 

I  have  wandered  all  the  wide  world  o'er 

Mourning  the  ills  I've  undergone, 
My  countless  woes  and  trials  sore. 

God  only  knows  how  much  I've  borne 
While  fighting  boldly  in  the  war; 

And  proofs  of  valor  I  have  worn 

Where  balls  were  flying  thick  and  far. 


392  POETS   AND    POETRY    OF   POLAND. 

How  oft  on  picket  I've  remained. 

Pinched  with  hunger,  chilled  with  cold, 
Yet  murmured  never  nor  complained, 

But  did  my  duty  true  and  bold. 

And  at  my  general's  behest 

I've  waded  to  the  fortress'  wall 
Through  blood  of  comrades  I  loved  best, — 

Could  aught  more  terrible  befall? 

Though  I  was  not  a  soldier  long, 

I've  fought  on  famous  battle-grounds; 

Have  lost  a  limb, —  once  good  and  strong, — 
And  suffered  honorable  wounds. 

Now  I  must  beg  from  door  to  door. 

Ye  rich!  with  ample  fortune  blessed, 
Though  fate  has  granted  goodly  store, 

Ye  harken  not  to  the  distressed ! 

Such  is  the  recompense  of  all 

Who  nobly  acted,  nobly  fought. 
And  happily  does  it  befall ;  — 

My  spirit  grieves,  but  changes  not. 

THE  PLOUGHMAN  AND  THE  LARK. 

'Tis  morn !     You  sing  already,  lark,  and  I  begin  to  plough, — 
For  man  must  dearly  purchase  life  by  toil  and  sweat  of  brow. 
He  labors  for  his  household  beneath  the  heavens  so  broad, 
While  ye,  who  toil  not,  live.    Still  we  are  children  of  one  God. 

You  are  my  companion  now,  though  different  is  our  lot. 
You  dream  of  love  and  pleasure;  but,  oh!  I  know  them  not. 
You  are  gay  and  happy  ever,  and  when  the  morning  breaks 
You  fly  to  swell  the  grand  "  Hosanna "  the  angel  wakes. 

Your  sweet  song  pleases  heaven,  and  your  thanks  are  very  dear 
To  our  God,  who  gives  the  little  that  you  require  here. 


KONDRATOWICZ.  393 

And  your  joyous  chatterings,  oft  repeated,  o'er  and  o'er, 
To  all  the  world  announce  the  praise  to  God  forevermore ! 

You  sing  already,  lark,  and  I  with  aching  heart  must  plough. 
As  you  heavenward  rise,  dear  bird,  pray  for  the  ploughman 

now. 

Say  that,  sailing  o'er  the  village,  you  saw  much  misery, 
And  hunger,  too.*   Spring  is  not  as  kind  as  your  sweet  melody. 

Rising  early  in  the  morning,  we  scarce  can  lift  our  hands 
To  praise  our  God.     Our  breasts  are  chilled,  and  sorrow  by 

us  stands. 
The  sight  of  spring  nor  moi'ning  star  can  bring  us  gladsome 

cheer, 
When  every  morn  the  church  bell  tolls  the  death  of  loved 

ones  here. 

The  children  cry,  men  suffer,  and  the  world  is  hid  by  tears; 
For  the  lark  the  spring  is  life,  but  death  the  ploughman  fears. 
Pray  for  us,  lark,  that  pitying  God  may  take  us  in  His  care, 
And  grant  us  heaven  to  sing  His  gloiy  forever  there! 

COUNTRYMEN,  I   BEG  ASSISTANCE. 
(Pomoc  dajcie  mi  Rodacy.) 

Countrymen,  I  beg  assistance, 

Trouble  sorely  has  bereft  me; 
I  must  beg  for  my  subsistence, 

Since  for  toil  but  one  hand's  left  me. 

Countrymen,  in  this  land  royal, 
A  poor  wand'ring  fellow  mortal, 

A  bold  soldier,  true  and  loyal, 
Begs  for  aid  without  your  portal. 

•  Both  my  aged  parents  leaving, 

Leaving  home  and  wife  so  cherished; 

*  Written  during  great  scarcity. 


394  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Leaving  my  poor  children  grieving, 
Fought  I  where  I  might  have  perished. 

On  the  battle-fields  most  gory 

Fought  I  'neath  my  country's  banner; 

Blood  I've  shed  on  fields  of  glory, 
Now  to  beg  beside  your  manor. 

Of  my  wealth  a  thief  bereft  me, 
Storm  and  fire  my  home  molested; 

Brother,  mother,  wife  have  left  me, 
In  the  grave  they  long  have  rested. 

'Neath  a  cruel  fate's  oppression, 

Scorn  and  need  with  grim  persistence 

Leave  me  nothing  in  possession, 
Save  one  hand  to  beg  assistance. 

Joy  and  hope  no  longer  burning  — 

I  but  wander,  wander  ever, 
For  my  native  heath  I'm  yearning, 

But  I  shall  behold  it  —  never. 

Some  old  friend  my  mem'ry  keeping, 
Mayhap  thinks  of  me  with  longing; 

Some  perchance  may  fall  to  weeping, 

Their  sad  thoughts  toward  me  thronging. 

Where  steel  clashed  and  balls  were  ringing 
When  I  fought  the  foe,  if  only 

Some  swift  ball  from  mercy  winging 
Had  but  stilled  this  heart  so  lonely. 

Sword  in  hand  death  would  have  found  me 
Fighting  'mid  the  leaden  shower; 

But  to-day  grief  closes  round  me, 
Which  no  weapon  can  o'erpower. 


KONDRATOWICZ.  395 

MATTHEW'S   UNLUCKY   TURNS. 
"(Przysz*a  kryska  na  Matyska.") 

Matthew  lived  in  days  now  olden ; 

His  like  since  has  ne'er  existed  — 
Handsome,  with  a  fortune  golden, 

Of  rare  joy  his  days  consisted. 
He  was  loved  and  knew  no  trouble, 

And  though  some  with  envy  burning 
Saw  his  fortune,  none  thought  Matthew's 

Golden  tide  would  e'er  be  turning. 

And  a  maiden,  black-eyed,  handsome, 

Loved  him  with  a  love  confiding, 
Vowed  Dear  Matthew,  my  own  darling, 

My  true  love  shall  be  abiding! 
But  another  chap  with  money 

Came  and  bought  her  heart's  affection; 
Matthew,  spurned,  received  this  cruel 

Stroke  of  fate  in  deep  dejection. 

My  dear  Matthew,  never  mind  it  — 

Sorrow  not  for  such  a  trifle; 
To  the  tavern  come  and  join  us, 

Quickly  all  this  trouble  stifle! 
Thus  his  chums  beguiled  his  sorrow 

With  their  words  of  cheer  and  gladness; 
"Eight,  friends,"  Matthew  said;  this  folly 

Paid  he  for  in  grief  and  sadness. 

In  the  bowl  he  drowned  his  sorrow, 

Half  a  week  he  drank  for  pleasure  — 
Treating  all  who  came  around  him, 

Treating  without  stint  or  measure. 
But  in  paying  for  the  liquor 

All  his  money  was  expended  — 
To  his  wretched  home  he  wandered, 

Ill-luck  every  step  attended. 


396       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

From  his  trouble  and  hard  drinking 

Matthew  sickened  unto  dying  — 
Then  the  doctor  came  to  see  him 

All  his  trouble  multiplying; 
For  his  visits  and  prescriptions 

Took  three  horses  from  the  stable. 
Then  poor  Matthew  left  the  country  — 

To  endure  his  fate  unable. 

Ere  he  died  he  thus  concluded: 

By  my  friends  to  be  remembered, 
In  my  will  I  must  leave  something 

To  each  one  for  service  rendered. 
In  his  hut,  alas!  was  nothing 

But  some  matting  old  and  tattered. 
And  poor  Matthew  sighed  perceiving 

All  his  plans  by  ill-luck  shattered! 

At  last  dying,  as  Job's  turkey, 

Poor  was  he,  and  ruined  wholly; 
The  old  remnants  of  his  wardrobe 

Formed  the  rest  for  head  so  lowly. 
At  his  funeral  was  no  mourner; 

Who  has  seen  aught  so  depressing? 
Four  old  beggars  bore  the  coffin  — 

Now  was  fortune  most  distressing. 

'Neath  the  grave-sod  in  the  churchyard 

'He  was  buried;  ah,  poor  fellow! 
His  demise  no  bells  were  tolling 

In  their  tones  so  sad  and  mellow. 
By  the  side  of  a  small  chapel 

Is  a  fir-tree  cross;  the  path  you 
Trace  and  read  thereon  as  written: 

"  The  last  turn  has  come  to  Matthew.' 


ODYNIEC.  397 


ODYNIEC. 

ANTON  EDWAKD  ODYNIEC,  born  1809,  is  the  author 
of  a  few  lyric  productions,  such  as  "The  Wedding," 
etc. ,  but  he  distinguished  himself  chiefly  by  his  trans- 
lations. He  translated  Walter  Scott's  "Lady  of  the 
Lake,"  "The  Bride  of  Abydos"  of  Byron,  "The  Fire 
Worshipers  "  of  Moore,  "Corsair"  and  "  Heaven  and 
Earth"  by  Byron,  also  "Mazeppa,"  and  rendered  into 
Polish  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  by  Walter 
Scott.  The  translation  of  ballads  from  Burger,  Zu- 
kowski  and  Pushkin,  as  also  Schiller's  "The  Maid  of 
Orleans,"  revert  greatly  to  the  credit  of  Odyniec. 
His  satiric  poem,  "The  "Specters,"  combines  elegance 
with  great  wit,  and  a  wholesome  moral  to  the  would- 
be  poets.  When  nothing  could  drive  away  ghosts 
from  a  haunted  building,  the  declamation  of  an  indif- 
ferent poet  of  one  of  his  compositions  at  the  witching 
hour  of  night  set  the  ghosts  to  yawning,  and  so  dis- 
gusted them  that  they  left  the  premises,  positively  and 
forever.  Mr.  Odyniec  resides  at  present  in  Warsaw. 
His  "  Felicita,  or  The  Martyrs  of  Carthagena,"  a 
drama  in  five  acts,  as  also  "Barbara  Radziwii,"  are 
esteemed  as  productions  of  very  high  order. 

PRAYERS   (A   LEGEND). 

"  Des  Herzens  Andacht  hebt  sich  frey  zu  Gott, 
Das  Wort  1st  todt,  der  Glaube  rnacht  lebendig." — SCHILLER. 

The  sight  of  a  lake!     Oh!  how  beautiful! 

At  evening's  hush  in  summer's  time, 
When  over  it  gently  the  soft  winds  lull 

The  waves  to  sleep  with  a  mystic  rhyme. 


398  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Oh!  how  gratefully  then  the  billows'  roar 
Sounds  in  the  ears  of  lookers  on; 

They  glisten  with  blue  near  the  further  shore, 
Slowly  fade  as  they  near  anon. 

With  just  such  weather,  the  skies  were  bright, 

Gently  sighed  the  evening  wind, 
When  a  worthy  pastor,  at  edge  of  night, 

Beside  the  lake  his  way  inclined. 

Already  the  last  bright  rays  of  the  sun 
Behind  the  mountains  strove  to  hide; 

But  from  the  West  appeared  a  single  one, 
That  strangely  charmed  the  waters  wide. 

The  pastor  to  heaven  lifted  his  eyes, 
And  long  he  gazed  in  holy  thought. 

How  good!  how  mighty  is  He!  and  how  wise! 
Who  all  these  stars  to  being  brought! 

The  sun's  fiery  course  to  His  will  He  bends, 
Compels  the  moon  along  her  way; 

To  fill  the  soundless  depths  the  water  sends; 
Bids  them  remain,  and  they  obey. 

Why  is  the  grass  upon  the  earth  so  green? 

The  night  so  dark?  the  day  so  light? 
Who  gave  spring  flowers?  autumn's  scene? 

Sweet  fruits  and  grain  for  man's  delight? 

Whose  mandate, — "Let  there  be,"— created  all? 

And  whose  breath  caused  this  world  to  be? 
Thus  musing  did  the  pious  pastor  fall 

Before  his  God  on  bended  knee. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  upon  the  tide 
He  turned  his  eyes  once  more,  and  then 

A  peasant,  leaping  over  a  log,  he  spied, 
And  saw  him  jumping  back  again. 


ODYNIEC.  399 

"  That's  for  you,  God,"'  at  ev'ry  jump  he  cries, 

And,  jumping  back,  "this  is  for  me." 
The  pastor  viewed  the  act  with  much  surprise. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  questioned  he. 

"  I  pray."     "  How's  that?  "  the  pastor  said;  "  'tis  odd. 

Can  it  be  you  know  not  your  prayers? 
Have  you  no  church?     Have  you  no  house  of  God? 

No  pastor  who  the  Word  declares?" 

"  I  knew  not  from  my  childhood's  early  day. 

Amidst  the  woods  I've  lived  alone, 
Nor  wander  hence.     I  have  no  time  to  stray, 

But  praise  my  God  as  best  I've  known. 

"  Whether  I  sow,  or  gather  sheaves  of  grain, 

Or  whether  I  am  making  hay, 
Whether  the  sun  shines  bright,  or  falls  the  rain, 

I  praise  and  thank  my  God  alway." 

The  pastor  marveling  his  knowledge  spare, 

Began  the  worth  of  prayer  to  tell, 
Explained  its  nature,  taught  him  the  Lord's  prayer, 

And  spoke  of  God  and  virtue  well. 

And  when  he  deemed  that  he  had  well  impressed 

His  teaching  on  the  peasant's  heart, 
And  said  the  prayers  once  more  with  him,  he  blessed 

The  boor,  and  went  his  way  apart. 

With  a  slow  pace  traveling  o'er  the  sand 

He  passed  at  length  around  the  lake, 
And  saw  the  evening  star  in  luster  grand 

Above  the  hills  in  beauty  wake. 

Through  the  immensity  of  heaven's  blue, 

Swimming  in  the  effulgent  light, 
Its  rays  from  the  lake's  bottom  glitter  through, 

Like  memories  of  past  delight. 


400  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Its  brightness  seemed  close  to  the  bottom  clasped, 

Like  virtue  to  an  upright  heart; 
It  will  last  unchanged,  though  by  whirlpools  grasped, 

Though  billows  over  it  roar  and  dart. 

As  the  mist  of  the  valley  upward  goes 
By  sunbeams  from  the  meadow  caught, 

So  the  pastor's  spirit  heavenward  rose 
On  wings  of  happy,  pious  thought. 

Then  he  heard  a  voice.     From  afar  it  spake, 
And,  ah!  he  is  filled  with  sudden  fear. 

For,  walking  on  waves  of  the  rolling  lake, 
He  saw  the  peasant  drawing  near. 

"Wait,  0  father!  wait!"  the  peasant  besought. 

"  Repeat  the  prayers  before  you  go 
Once  more ;  for  what  you  told  me  I  forgot, 

Although  I  wish  them  well  to  know.1' 

The  pastor,  seeing  such  strong  evidence 

That  in  God's  grace  he  had  a  part, 
Said  to  him:  "  Son,  in  your  own  way  pray  hence;  — 

More  than  the  words  God  loves  the  heart. 

"  Before  the  throne,  my  son, —  first  precedence, — 

Your  virtue  and  industry  take," 
The  pastor  said.     The  happy  peasant  thence 

Returned  in  safety  o'er  the  lake. 


JULIAN    KORSAK.  401 


JULIAN  KORSAK. 

JULIAN  KORSAK  has  a  peculiar  characteristic  of  his 
own  in  a  certain  style  of  lyrical  boldness  and  loftiness, 
and  laudable  competition  in  translations;  and  another 
fact  'which  is  not  to  be  overlooked  is  his  noble  en- 
deavors (in  which  he  was  successful)  to  beautify  the 
Polish  verse  with  flowers  of  Eastern  poesy.  The 
whole  is  stamped  with  these  attractions,  and  forms 
quite  a  large  volume  —  "Poetry  of  Julian  Korsak." 
In  this  volume  his  lyrics  are  flashing  with  resplendent 
light.  The  two-sided  soul  of  his  poetry  is  glistening 
toward  the  "West  with  lyrics,  and  to  the  East  with 
"  Bey  ram." 

Korsak  has  done  great  service  to  Polish  literature 
by  his  translation  of  the  "Divine  Comedy"  of  Dante, 
upon  which  he  labored  for  twelve  years, —  and  we  may 
say  the  best  part  of  his  life.  In  this  work,  permeated 
and  carried  away  by  the  spirit  of  the  great  master's 
Christian  poesy,  we  find  many  explanations  of  points 
in  the  poem  very  difficult  to  understand. 

In  the  translation  of  this  poem  Korsak  had  not 
alone  in  view  his  own  personal  fame,  but  also  a  con- 
scientious responsibility;  uniting  his  own  spirit  with 
the  spirit  of  Dante,  he  seemed  to  have  acquired  new 
poetic  strength  as  well  as  inspiration;  all  conceptions 
and  thoughts  —  in  fact  all  the  spiritual  powers  —  un- 
folded within  him  on  the  grandest  scale,  befitting  the 
bard  who  sung  the  great  theme  of  Eternity. 

He  was  born  in  1807,  and  after  finishing  his  educa- 
tion in  the  University  of  Wilno,  from  1826  to  1830,  he 
resided  alternately  at  Warsaw  and  St.  Petersburg,  de- 
26 


402       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

voting  his  time  to  still  further  improvement  and  cul- 
ture. After  the  death  of  his  father  he  succeeded  as 
heir  to  a  large  landed  estate  in  the  county  of  Slonim, 
and  was  made  the  president  of  the  county  court ;  but 
at  the  expiration  of  his  term  he  returned  into  rural 
seclusion  and  devoted  himself  to  literature  and  sciences. 
In  the  year  1853,  in  order  to  improve  his  failing  health, 
he  went  to  Nowogrodek  (Newtown),  and  after  a  few 
months'  illness  died  on  the  30th  of  September,  same 
year. 

His  work  "  Poetry  "  was  published  at  Posen,  1833, 
and  at  St.  Petersburg,  1839;  "  Lara,"  from  Byron,  1836; 
"New  Parnassus,"  translation  of  Shakspeare's  tragedy 
of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet "  ;  "  Twardowski  the  Sorcerer," 
"Dramatic  Dialogues,"  "  Camoens  in  the  Hospital," 
and  many  fugitive  pieces.  The  "  Divine  Comedy  " 
was  published  in  1840. 

THE  FROZEN  TEAR 

Soft  o'er  the  white  bed  falls  the  moon's  pure  light; — 
'Tis  bleak  and  chill,  but  Love  its  vigil  keeps, 

As  maiden  hither  comes  each  dreary  night, 

And  at  her  loved  one's  tomb  till  morn  she  weeps. 

'Tis  bleak  and  chill,  but  neither  drifting  snow 
Nor  wintry  storm  the  maiden's  heart  appalls. 

She  seeks  his  grave  to  pray  —  her  sad  tears  flow, 
And  one  bright  drop  upon  the  gravestone  falls. 

The  tear  was  hot,  but,  chilled  by  the  cold  blast 
And  storm  at  night,  was  frozen  to  the  stone 

Like  drops  of  sleet  to  tree  limbs  frozen  fast, 
Through  all  the  night  all,  all  the  day  it  shone. 

An  angel  saw  it  and  with  joy  divine 

Within  his  hand  the  frozen  tear-drop  bore. 


JULIAN    KORSAK.  403 

Pity  in  heaven  willed  that  it  should  shine 
A  pearl  in  her  bright  crown  forevermore  ! 

MY  BELOVED  ONE. 

Her  lips  are  ever  streaming 

Sweet  kisses  unto  me, 
Her  eyes  which  light  are  beaming 

Are  light  as  eyes  can  be; — 
How  beautiful  is  she ! 

Oh !  when  to  me  she's  speaking 

My  soul  her  accents  hears, 
And  though  my  heart  were  breaking 

She'd  soothe  my  grief  and  tears; — 
How  tender  then  is  she! 

Whene'er  her  true  love  greeting 

She  moves  in  airy  grace, 
Their  lips  in  kisses  meeting 

And  clasped  in  close  embrace, 
How  passionate  is  she! 

When  change's  wing  soars  over 
Joys  green  and  springing  heath, 

Misfortune  finds  her  lover 

And  blasts  him  with  his  breath, 
How  constant  then  is  she! 

Before  a  week  be  flying 

Another  love  she'll  take, 
And  scorn  her  first  love's-  sighing, 

Although  his  heart  should  break ; — 
How  fickle  then  is  she! 

She  bids  her  lover  smother 

His  feeling,  and  depart; 
Her  hand  she  gives  another, 

But  no  one  owns  her  heart; — 
How  curst,  how  curst  is  she! 


404       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


WITWICKI. 

STEPHEN  WITWICKI  was  born  at  Krzemieniec,  in  the 
province  of  Podolia,  where  his  father  was  a  professor 
in  the  Lyceum.  After  finishing  his  education  he  went 
to  Warsaw,  where  he  obtained  a  position  of  great 
honor  and  importance,  being  appointed  one  of  the 
chiefs  in  the  "  Commission  of  Learning."  In  the  lit- 
erary fights  of  those  days  between  the  Classics  and 
Romantics  he  joined  the  ranks  of  the  latter.  He  left 
his  lucrative  office,  preferring  to  go  to  France,  where 
he  became  personally  acquainted  with  Mickiewicz  and 
Zaleski,  and  turned  his  mind  to  the  awakening  of  the 
true  religious  feeling  of  the  Polish  people. 

Witwicki  was  a  thoughtful,  careful,  and  a  finished 
poet.  He  wrote  ballads,  pastorals,  and  biblical  po- 
etry; also  tales  in  verse,  as,  for  instance,  "Edmund," 
his  "Life's  Account  of  a  Country  Gentleman," 
"Spring,"  "A  Change,"  and  "The  Yoices,"  the  last 
especially  of  great  Christian  humility,  but  full  of  po- 
etic power.  His  moral  and  literary  miscellanies  are 
pleasing  and  instructive.  His  "Evenings  of  a  Pil- 
grim," and  in  fact  all  of  Witwicki's  poetical  works, 
were  published  in  Warsaw,  Paris,  as  also  in  Leon 
Zienkowicz's  "Library  of  Polish  Poets,"  Leipsic, 
1866;  his  "Gadu-Gadu"  (Chit-Chats),  at  Leipsic  in 
1850,  and  at  St.  Petersburg,  1852.  This  honored  bard 
died  in  Rome,  1847. 

CUPID. 

A  little  boy  of  curious  ways, 

With  brilliant  eyes  and  rosy  lips, 


WITWICKI.  405 

With  golden  hair  and  damask  cheeks, 
I  met  with  on  my  morning  trips. 

I  gazed  upon  him  for  a  while, 

Thinking  he -had  a  tale  to  tell  — 
When  with  a  lurking,  meaning  smile, 

He  asked  me  "  If  my  heart  was  well?1' 

But  gazing  at  my  visitor 

I  saw  some  arrows  'neath  his  wing; 
Aha!  said  I,  there's  danger  here, 

With  this  mischievous  little  thing! 

Again  he  asked,  while  there  I  stood, 

If  to  his  pangs  I  was  a  stranger? 
I  answered  not,  but  quickly  ran 

From  such  a  sudden,  threat'ning  danger! 

With  panting  breast  and  bosom  thrilling 
At  having  'scaped  from  such  a  storm, 

I  fled  unto  my  Anna's  dwelling, 
To  hide  beside  her  lovely  form. 

But  know  ye  what  befel  me  there, 
How  I  was  caught  in  Cupid's  snai-e? 

I  fell  exhausted  at  her  feet, 

And  lo!  the  little  rogue  was  there. 

THE   WARRIOR. 
('"Rrzy  mqj  guiady,  ziemie  grzebie.") 

Yonder  stands  my  sorrel  neighing  — 

Parting  time  draws  near; 
Farewell  father  —  farewell  mother, 

Farewell  sisters  dear. 

Haste  my  steed!  the  voice  calls  loudly 

To  the  battle  plain  — 
On  the  field  thou  lookest  proudly, 

Proudly  shak'st  thy  mane. 


406       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND, 

To  the  field  where  hosts  assemble, 

With  the  wind  away ! 
Let  the  foe  before  us  tremble  — 

We  shall  win  the  day! 

'Mid  the  ranks  of  dead  and  dying 

If  I  chance  to  fall, 
Take  thy  way,  my  steed,  in  flying 

Homeward  free  from  thrall! 

Hark!  I  hear  my  sisters  calling  — 
Shall  we  turn  my  steed? 

No!  to  where  the  foe  is  falling 
Let  us  haste  with  speed! 

JOSEPHINE. 


If  thou  shalt  ever  meet 

Spring's  sweetest,  loveliest  rose, 
With  balmy  breezes  sweet, 

Whose  cheek  with  brightness  glows 
Like  Orion's  purest  light, 

Whose  words  breathe  but  delight, 
And  if  she  ask  with  love  for  me 
'Tis  Josephine  —  be  sure  'tis  she! 

n. 

If  like  the  silent  stream, 

When  flowing  without  noise, 

Or  like  the  moon's  sweet  beam, 
From  thoughtless  crowds  she  flies; 

To  all  she  knows  is  kind, 
Pure,  noble,  and  refined  — 

And  if  she  ask  with  love  for  me 

'Tis  Josephine  —  be  sure  'tis  she! 


WITWICKI.  407 


III. 

If  thou  shalt  see  a  tear 
Roll  down  her  rosy  cheek, 

And  if  she  doth  appear 

With  feeling  pure  to  speak; 

And  in  her  brightest  eye 
Thou  shalt  see  modesty, 

And  if  she  ask  with  love  for  me 

'Tis  Josephuie  —  be  sure  'tis  she! 

IV. 

If  thou  shalt  ever  see 

Some  orphans  or  the  poor, 

Who  driven  by  poverty 
Enter  her  welcome  door; 

And  if  her  heart  doth  beat 
With  sympathy  replete, 

And  if  she  ask  with  love  for  me 

'Tis  Josephine  —  be  sure  'tis  she! 

v. 

But  if  thou  e'er  of  love 

To  her  by  chance  shalt  speak, 
And  if  a  tear  of  sorrow 

Do  not  bedew  her  cheek; 
And  not  a  sigh  she  give, 

Her  bosom  does  not  heave, 
And  if  she  does  not  ask  for  me, 
My  Josephine, —  it  is  not  she! 


408       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


GOSLAWSKI. 

MAURICE  GOS&AWSKI  was  born  in  1805;  a  man  of  the 
noblest  heart  and  most  exalted  mind;  not  only  one  of 
the  greatest  Polish  poets,  but  also  one  of  the  truest  of 
Poland's  sons.  Being  concerned  in  the  revolution  of 
1831,  he  was  never  remiss  in  duty  as  a  soldier,  nor 
neglected  the  cause  of  his  country  as  a  patriot.  He 
was  so  honest  and  honorable  besides,  that  he  had  the 
love  of  the  whole  country,  and  when  he  died  we  may 
truly  say  that  Poland  lost  not  only  one  of  her  greatest 
poets,  but  she  also  lost  one  of  the  most  high-minded 
and  honorable  of  her  sons.  His  death  took  place  in 
Stanishiwow  (Galicia),  1839. 

Almost  all  of  his  poetry  breathes  with  most  devoted 
love  to  his  country  and  a  friendly  and  brotherly  attach- 
ment to  the  whole  people.  He  is  the  author  of  "Po- 
dolian  Wedding,"  "Renegat,"  "Banco,"  and  many 
others.  His  fugitive  pieces  are  full  of  great  poetic 
spirit  and  pathos. 

HAD  I  THE  ROYAL  EAGLE'S  WING. 
"Gdyby  orlem  byd." 

Had  I  the  royal  eagle's  wing 

How  soon  Podolia's  air  I'd  breathe, 

And  rest  beneath  that  sunny  sky 

Where  all  my  thoughts  and  wishes  wreathe. 

'Tis  there  I  first  beheld  the  light, 

There  passed  by  happiest,  earliest,  years ; 

Tis  there  my  father's  ashes  lay, 

Sunned  with  my  smiles,  dewed  with  my  tears. 


GOSZA.WSKI.  409 

Oh!  were  I  but  the  regal  bird, 
I'd  fly  to  where  my  steps  once  trod, 
And  where  my  hopes  are  buried  up; 
Then  change  me  to  an  eagle,  God! 

Oh!  would  I  were  a  brilliant  star 
Whose  light  illumes  Podolia's  groves, 
That  I  might  gaze  throughout  the  night 
On  her,  the  girl  my  spirit  loves! 

Then  from  the  silvery  clouds  I'd  send 
Unto  her  eyelids  visions  bright 
As  those  soft  rays  which  Luna  beams 
Upon  the  lakes  in  summer's  night. 

To  watch  with  eyes  unseen  her  steps, 
To  gaze  upon  her  form  afar, — 
My  soul's  transported  with  the  thoughts  ; 
Change  me,  0  heavens,  to  a  star! 

Why  dream  the  thought,  my  bursting  soul, 
Thy  aspii*ations  are  in  vain; — 
Exiled  to  far  and  foreign  land, 
Ne'er  shall  I  see  my  home  again. 

Accursed  am  I  !  yon  eagle  soars, 
The  star  of  night  rolls  glittering  on; — 
My  home  is  far, —  my  soul  is  chained, 
Tears  flow  around  me, —  hope  is  gone ! 


UNCERTAINTY. 

Dearest!  I  keep  a  secret  still  — 

A  holy  secret,  all  my  own; 
My  eyes  with  tears  for  sadness  fill, 

I  smile  and  make  my  rapture  known. 


410  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

But  darling!  in  those  eyes  of  thine 
There  glistens  neither  tears  nor  joy; 

I  see  not  there  the  doom  divine 
Which  shall  uplift  me  or  destroy. 

Thou  hast  no  need  to  tell  me  twice 
Of  the  destruction  held  in  store, 

One  look  from  thee  will  still  suffice: 
In  it  are  all  my  hopes  —  and  more. 

My  soul  'tis  easy  £o  upraise 

To  that  which  makes  it  paradise; 

Its  only  need  or  wish  to  gaze 

Into  the  heaven  within  thine  eyes. 


RAYMUND    KORSAK.  411 


RAYMUND    KORSAK. 

RAYMUND  KORSAK  was  born  in  1767,  in  White  Rus- 
sia, and  was  a  colonel  in  the  Polish  army.  As  a  poet 
he  is  mostly  known  by  his  elegant  effusions  "To  Poe- 
try," as  also  by  his  "Introduction"  to  the  poem  of 
Rev.  Baka  on  "  Infallible  Death." 

He  died  in  Podolia,  17th  of  November,  1817.  His 
friend,  Bohusz,  erected  a  monument  to  his  memory, 
with  this  inscription:  "The  memory  of  a  virtuous  man 
shall  outlive  ages."  He  distinguished  himself  in  lyric 
poetry,  especially  in  the  composition  of  hymns. 

ODE   TO  GOD. 

Avaunt!  ye  empires,  powers,  kings, 

That  this  too-little  earth  contains; 
My  Muse  a  higher  theme  now  sings, 

Heaven's  pure  regions  she  attains! 

To  her,  my  Muse,  the  Alpine  height 

Is  as  the  valley  spread  below; 
From  turbulence  she  taketh  flight, 

From  crash  of  storms  that  overthrow. 

She  speeds  aloft  on  soaring  wings, 

And  loses  in  aerial  realms; 
All  monuments  of  earthly  things 

Before  the  glory  that  o'erwhelms. 

Thou  sovereign  of  birth  and  death ! 

At  Thy  command, —  supreme,  divine, — 
Rose  suns  and  stars  and  worlds  beneath, 

But  never  was  beginning  Thine! 
And  what  our  feeble  thoughts  transcend, 
Thou  neither  yet  shalt  have  an  end! 


412  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

Thou  sittest  on  majestic  throne; 

Time  at  Thy  word  begun  its  course; 
All  omnipotence  is  Thy  own; 

Of  wisdom  Thou  Thyself  a  source. 

Stern  justice  rests  within  Thy  hand, 
For  us  Thy  mercy  still  provides. 

0  Lord  of  all!  whose  sole  command 
Creates,  exalts,  upholds,  divides! 

Thou  on  unaided  power  dost  rest, 
Before  whose  thunder  angels  quake, 

And  through  the  heavens  manifest 

The  might  that  stills  when  storms  awake. 

Thou  lightest  stars,  and  dost  create 
The  rocks  that  hide  not  from  Thy  face; 

Thou  rulest  o'er  all  human  fate, 
And  with  Thy  presence  fillest  space. 

In  the  beginning,  self  sustained, 
Thy  will  itself  created  Thee, 

Thy  wisdom  in  its  breadth  contained 
Of  worlds  the  vast  immensity! 

Above  the  chaos  spread  around, 
Mid  elements  confusion  rent, 

O'er  darkness  all  unpierced  by  sound 
Thy  living  breath,  Thy  touch,  wast  sent. 

Then  rose  the  sun  with  glowing  ray, 

And  nature  saw  creation's  day! 

EXTRACT   FROM   A   RELIGIOUS   POEM. 

For  gifts  bestowed  since  earth  I  trod, 
That  to  my  saddened  heart  were  given, 

I  thank  Thee  mostly,  0  great  God ! 
That  but  a  mortal  I  am  here. 


GORECKI,  413 


GORECKI. 

ANTON  GORECKI  was  a  writer  of  lyric  poetry  and 
fables.  The  distinguishing  marks  of  Gorecki's  fables 
are  that  they  are  in  reality  little  satires,  with  a  view 
of  pointing  out  the  weak  side  of  the  society  in  which 
he  lived,  and  to  correct  faults  and  foibles  in  a  general 
way.  His  ballad  "The  Doom  of  the  Traitor  to  His 
Country  "  is  truly  beautiful.  "  The  Taking  of  the  Pass 
of  Samo-Siera  "  is  also  an  uncommon  production.  All 
his  fugitive  compositions  are  permeated  by  genuine  wit 
and  patriotic  feeling.  As  a  poet  his  name  will  always 
occupy  a  high  place  in  Polish  literature. 

Gorecki  was  born  in  1787,  in  the  province  of  Wilno. 
His  education  began  at  home  and  in  the  schools  of 
Wilno,  and  later  he  entered  the  University  of  Wilno. 
In  spite  of  the  Russian  government's  orders  he  made  his 
way  through  to  Warsaw  and  joined  the  army.  In  the 
campaign  of  1812  he  distinguished  himself  as  an  officer 
in  the  battle  of  Smolensk,  and  received  the  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  and  participated  in  all  battles.  After 
Napoleon's  return  he  went  to  Cracow  to  be  healed  of 
his  wounds.  He  settled  in  the  country  with  the  rank 
of  captain,  and  gave  himself  up  to  farming  pursuits, 
literature  and  poetry.  After  1815  he  traveled  in  for- 
eign countries,  visiting  Germany  and  Italy.  Returning, 
he  settled  in  Lithuania,  and  was  one  of  the  most  active 
members  of  the  so-called  society  of  "Ragamuffins," 
but  in  reality  a  club  of  young  men  of  great  talent,  who 
published  a  newspaper  called  "The  Street  News,"  a 
very  celebrated  institution  of  its  day.  After  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  revolution  of  1830  Gorecki,  being  a 


414       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

member  of  the  national  committee  of  Wilno,  was  made 
agent,  and  went  to  Switzerland,  London  and  Paris, 
where,  after  the  end  of  the  revolution,  he  remained  till 
after  his  death.  He  was  in  close  connections  with 
Mickiewicz,  Zaleski,  Witwicki  and  other  distinguished 
men,  and  shared  with  them  the  vicissitudes  of  a  life 
generally  experienced  by  refugees.  He  died  the  18th 
of  September,  1861. 

His  works  were  published  in  Paris.  "  Poetry  of  a 
Lithuanian,"  1834;  "Fables,"  1839;  "Seyba,"  1837; 
"New  Collection,"  1858;  "Another  Little  Volume," 
1859;  and  "Miscellaneous,"  1861. 


DOOM  OF  THE  TRAITOR  TO  HIS  COUNTRY. 

"  Smier6  Zdrajcy  Ojczyzny." 

The  night  was  dark!     The  gloomy  silence  poured 
Calmness  on  Nature's  breast,  to  peace  restored; 
Then  the  pale  moon  arose  to  view, 
And  nearer  the  appointed  moments  drew 

When  spirits,  on  their  tireless  wings, 
Descend  beneath  the  star-beamed  glow 

To  soothe  with  sleep  the  sufferings 
That  mortals  know. 

Beside  the  river 

Which  flows  forever, 
Whose  turgid  billows  moan  unrest, 
A  stately  castle  rears  its  crest. 

There  a  loathsome  traitor  lies 

On  gilded  bed,  that  gives  no  ease, 
And  waits  for  sleep  to  close  his  eyes, 

And  bring  his  guilty  bosom  peace. 


GORECKI.  415 

Now  and  again  the  glimmering  light 

That  from  the  costly  lamps  outshone 
Showed  through  the  shadows  of  the  night 

The  wealth  obtained  through  crime  alone. 

With  care  and  labor,  year  by  year, 

Of  gold  he  hoarded  many  a  store. 
The  treasures  of  the  world  were  here, 

But,  lacking  peace,  he  slept  no  more. 

The  moments  fly! 
The  town  clock,  striking  solemnly, 
Tolls  twelve  —  but  yet  no  blessed  sleep 
Doth  o'er  his  weary  senses  creep. 

Yes!  from  his  pillow  sleep  goes  hence 

To  huts,  and  lets  its  blessing  fall 
O'er  those  who  lived  in  affluence 

Ere  for  their  country  they  lost  all. 

But  he,  his  land's  degenerate  son, 

Waits  still  for  sleep  to  bring  relief, 

And,  trembling  like  an  autumn  leaf, 
Remorseful  shivers  through  him  run. 

Sleepless,  he  leaves  his  gilded  bed, 

Bends  o'er  the  coffers  filled  with  gold, 
And  thinks  to  soothe  the  spirit's  dread 

With  glittering  treasures  there  untold. 

Hark!  through  the  heavens  a  roll  of  thunder  crashes! 

The  lightnings  blaze  in  ire! 

The  flickering  lights  expire! 
Backward  the  door,  unhinged,  the  whirlwind  dashes! 

Then  the  pale  moon  gleams  through, 
Disclosing  to  the  view 


416  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

A  stately  form,  and  staid, 

In  mourning  garb  arrayed. 

A  still  and  somber  guest, 

With  pale  hands  folded  on  a  bleeding  breast. 

Beholding  that  pale  form, 
The  traitor  trembles.     Whether  it  is  warm 
With  life  he  knows  not,  nor  can  comprehend. 
His  hair  stands  up  on  end, 
And  he  cries  out,  "  Who  tries  to  frighten  me? 
Speak,  or  die  instantly!  " 

But  from  the  form  is  heard 

In  answer  not  a  word. 

It  only  nearer  draws,  with  silent  tread, 

And  sighs  instead! 

The  traitor  then,  despite  his  soul's  alarms, 
Growing  more  confident,  resorts  to  arms. 
The  trigger  pulls  in  ire! 
The  weapon  flashes  fire! 
The  bullet,  in  its  eager  thirst  for  blood, 
Echoes  through  the  air  its  thud, 
And  strikes  the  apparition  —  but  it  draws 

Nearer,  with  noiseless  pace, 
A  noiselessness  that  awes, 

And  stands  before  the  traitor  face  to  face. 

The  phantom  on  his  trembling  shoulder  lays 
A  hand  whose  chill  dismays, 

So  death-like  is  its  claspJ 

His  brow  is  dewed! 

He  sinks  subdued, 
Another  weapon  clutching  in  his  grasp. 

Then  spoke  a  voice  in  gentle  tones, 
Like  brooklet  purling  o'er  the  stones, 


GOKECKI.  417 

As  musical  as  sound  of  lute, 

As  sad  as  winds  in  church-yard  mute. 

"  Hold!  for  the  ball  is  vainly  sped. 

I  live  not  in  this  world,  but  with  the  dead. 

Son,  tho'  thou  wouldst  doom  me  to  the  grave, 

Yet  still  I  live,  and  am  here  to  save! 

I  see  thy  soul  with  keen  remorse  oppressed, 

And  I  would  win  it  to  eternal  rest, 

And  I  forgive.     No  mother's  heart  is  won 

To  turn  against  a  son !  " 

But  as  she  spoke  the  dwelling  rocked, 

As  by  an  earthquake  shocked. 

The  shades  of  night  made  moan, 

And  through  their  shadows  thrown 

A  dark-winged  shape  appears. 

And  in  an  awful  voice  of  thunder  says: 

"  Forgiveness  there  is  none  for  him  who  slays! 

Who  sheds  his  brother's  blood  must  reap  in  tears, 

Stand  up  therefor 

Before  God's  judgment  evermore 
Then  ceased  the  spirit.     On  the  couch  he,cast 

The  traitor's  lifeless  form. 
His  soul  he  bore  away  through  clouds  and  blast; 

While  moaned  the  wind,  and  lightning  rent  the  storm. 


"TO  A  LADY  LAUGHING  AT  A  STAMMERING  POET." 

Within  these  few  lines  are  forever  recorded 

Two  errors:  I  stammering,  you  manners  unheeding. 

Posterity's  judgment  will  thus  be  awarded: 

My  error  was  nature,  your's  lack  of  good  breeding. 

27 


418  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

FABLES. 
THE  OXEN  AND  THE  SPANIEL.* 

About  a  certain  farm  there  arose  a  dispute. 

A  judicial  tribunal  undertook  the  suit. 

All  the  oxen  belonging  to  the  farm  involved 

Anxiously  regarded  the  question  to  be  solved: 

Who  would  be  their  future  master?    Wishing  a  report, 

They  asked  the  spaniel  to  please  hasten  to  the  court, 

To  ascertain  the  facts,  if  anybody  knew. 

But  the  spaniel  answered,  "  Why  should  that  concern  you? 

'Tis  of  no  consequence  to  you,  respected  friends, 

Who  obtains  the  farm;  for,  howe'er  the  matter  ends, 

Be  it  John  or  Peter,  or  whatever  the  name, 

You  will  be  commanded  to  work  on,  just  the  same." 

.     THE  BIG  SHIP  AND  A  SMALL  BOAT. 

It  so  happened  once  beside  a  coast, 

A  small  boat,  wise  in  its  own  conceit, 

Lying  in  port,  tied  up  to  a  post, 

And  seeing,  far  out,  the  wild  waves  beat 

A  large  ship,  as  the  storm  beset  her, 

Said:    "Shame!  that  it  can  swim  no  better!" 

Just  then  more  fiercely  the  wind  up  blew; 

Lo!  the  small  boat's  line  was  snapped  in  two; 

And  helpless  against  the  rock  it  crashed, 

Till  into  small  fragments  it  was  dashed. 

THE  DROP  OF  WATER. 

"  What  would  it  avail  for  me,  one  drop  alone,  to  go 
Away  from  my  cloud-companions  to  the  earth  below? 
Uselessly  would  I  perish,  and  do  the  earth  no  good." 
Thus  reasoned  every  drop  of  the  rain  brotherhood. 

*Written  during  the  Vienna  Congress,  1815. 


GO  RECK  I.  419 

In  consequence  of  this  did  a  fearful  drouth  succeed, 
Till  one  of  the  little  drops,  perceiving  the  earth's  need, 
Said:    "  Whether  I'll  help  or  not,  I'll  make  a  sacrifice." 
So  down  to  earth  she  dropped  from  her  cloud-home  in  the  skies. 
Then  the  heavens  sent  after  her  to  the  parching  plain 
Many  more;  till,  drop  by  drop,  there  came  a  cheering  rain 
That  revived  the  farmer's  fields,  and  saved  him  from  distress, 
And  made  his  heart  o'erflow  with  joy  and  thankfulness. 
'Tis  noble  to  give  a  good  example  to  others, 
And  make  sacrifices  for  the  good  of  our  brothers. 

SPARROWS. 

A    FABLE. 

Old  sparrows  grouping  on  a  tree, 

Very  learnedly  conversed, 

Finding  fault  with  ev'ry  bird,  whate'er  it  be 

Hoopoe's  tuft-head  provoked  their  gossip  first. 

The  jay,  thinking  he  is  pretty,  is  so  vain. 

The  golden  oriole,  like  the  thrush,  is  plain. 

The  dove  pretends  modesty,  but  when  she  flies 

Her  aspiring  flight  her  gentle  mien  belies. 

The  cuckoo,  most  selfish  all  the  birds  among, 

Slips  slyly  in  other  nests  her  helpless  young. 

The  bullfinch  alights  upon  the  highest  tree, 

Goldfinch  thinks  his  song  the  finest  melody. 

And  a  crazy-head,  the  wagtail  he  flies, 

As  soon  as  the  morning's  light  begins  to  rise, 

Out  to  each  nook  and  corner  —  everywhere,   ' 

With  turned-up  tail  and  eager,  prying  air. 

But  as  these  birds  themselves  were  only  sparrows, 

They  at  others  shot  their  arrows. 

But  idlers  they  through  summer  sweet, 
Who  but  consumed  the  farmer's  wheat. 


420  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 


BALINSKI. 

CHARLES  BALINSKI  was  a  poet  in  every  sense  of  the 
word.  He  looked  into  the  future,  and  wove  it  into 
pains  and  disappointments,  longings  and  anticipations 
of  his  own  life.  In  this  respect  he  resembles  leaves 
which,  when  crushed,  give  fragrance  they  could  not  do 
before  being  thus  destroyed. 

His  poems,  modestly  entitled  "Writings  of  Balin- 
ski,"  are  very  well  known  wherever  the  Polish  lan- 
guage is  spoken.  Among  them  are  contained  some 
compositions  pertaining  to  the  first  epoch  of  his  life, 
when  he  was  expelled  to  Siberia.  These  poems  are  of 
remarkable  beauty.  "  Faris,  the  Bard  "  occupies  the 
most  prominent  place.  "The  Prayer  for  a  Cross  "  is 
equally  distinguished  for  poetic  power.  His  transla- 
tions from  Calderon  secured  for  him  the  first  rank 
among  translators.  Other  original  creations  of  Ba- 
linski,  as  "The  Voice  of  the  Polish  People,"  "A 
Brotherly  Word  to  the  Songster  of  Mohort,"  "The 
Cross-Road, "  "Penned  Up,"  stand  high  in  poetic 
merits.  The  rhythmical  construction  of  the  verse  and 
the  beauty  of  expression  remind  one  of  the  painstak- 
ing and  exactness  of  classic  poets. 

A  year  before  his  death  he  sent  a  part  of  the  poem 
entitled  "The  Sufferings  of  the  Redeemer"  to  the 
library  of  Ossolinskis.  This  splendid  literary  produc- 
tion, though  incomplete,  is  written  on  a  more  extended 
poetic  scale,  well  and  happily  conceived,  and  rendered 
with  great  harmony  in  a  truly  masterly  manner  —  a 
composition  which  could  inspire  its  author  with  a  just 
pride.  He  also  left,  in  manuscript,  sketches  of  Polish 


BALINSKI.  421 

literature,  or  rather  the  development  of  the  national 
poetic  spirit,  including  specimens  of  poetic  and  prosaic 
Polish  authors. 

Balinski  was  born  the  27th  of  May,  1817,  in  a  vil- 
lage near  the  city  of  Lublin,  While  at  the  Lyceum  at 
Warsaw,  and  after  the  death  of  Arthur  Zawisza,  one 
of  the  Scholars  wrote  on  the  blackboard  "Exoriare 
nostris  ex  ossibus  nltor."*  On  account  of  this  verse 
the  whole  school  would  have  been  subjected  to  the 
strictest  investigation,  but  the  noble  youth  (Balinski), 
wishing  the  scholars  of  the  Lyceum  to  go  unharmed, 
took  the  blame  upon  himself,  and  was  imprisoned,  but 
after  a  thorough  investigation  released.  However,  not 
long  after  that  occurrence,  he  was  suspected  of  partici- 
pating in  certain  patriotic  doings,  was  arrested,  im- 
prisoned, and  finally  sent  to  Siberia,  where  he  re- 
mained until  1844,  but  on  the  birth  of  the  present 
successor  to  the  Russian  throne  he  was  released. 
While  in  Siberia  Charles  lost  not  only  his  comely 
looks,  but  also  his  health.  The  result  of  this  un- 
toward event  was  that  his  affianced,  after  seeing  such 
marked  change  in  his  looks,  recanted  her  promise. 
In  the  year  1848,  being  threatened  with  another  perse- 
cution, he  fled  into  Galicia  (Austria),  then  into  the 
Duchy  of  Posen,  and  at  last  found  a  shelter  in  France, 
devoting  himself  to  poetry  and  literary  labors.  In 
1863  he  returned  to  his  native  land  to  take  care  of  his 
brother,  who  was  severely  wounded,  and  lay  very  ill 
at  Cracow  From  here  he  went  to  Lemberg,  and 
found  generous  assistance  in  his  literary  pursuits. 
The  columns  of  "-The  Annals  of  Ossolinskis'  Library" 
having  been  opened  to  him,  he  continued  his  poem 
"Life  and  Death  of  the  Redeemer,""  but  death  pre- 
*  May  an  avenger  arise  from  our  bones. 


422  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND 

vented  its  finishing.  He  died  on  the  10th  of  January, 
1864.  He  was  a  near  relative  of  Balinski  the  histo- 
rian. 

His  "Writings"  were  published  at  Posen,  1849; 
"A  Few  Literary  Labors,"  Warsaw,  1846;  "Talcs  for 
the  People,"  Warsaw,  1846;  "Brotherly  Word,"  Lon- 
don, 1857;  "A  Collection  of  Poetry,"  1S56;  "The 
Sufferings  of  the  Redeemer,"  Lemberg,  1864,  etc.  etc. 


EXILE'S   PRAYER   IN   THE   SPRING 

Our  Father!  Thou  hast  brought  the  spring  again; 

Again  Thy  hand  strews  gifts  and  makes  us  glad; 
Joyful  in  rich  profusion  smiles  the  plain, 

Yet  Father,  we  are  sad! 

The  winter  gloorn  has  swiftly  winged  away, 
The  heavens  above  us  don  their  clearest  blue; 

But  with  the  grass  that  springs  in  fresh  array 
No  hopes  for  us  renew. 

Earth  hears  the  birds  that,  throng  in  joyous  troops, 

Reviving  dew  upon  her  bosom  lies; 
Behold  the  primrose  of  our  hope!  it  droops  — 

For  lack  of  dew  it  dies! 

Birds  in  returning  home  beyond  the  sea 

Dip  wings  with  tuneful  song  in  ocean's  foam ; 

But  we,  poor  pilgrims  —  when,  alas!  shall  we 
Returning  find  a  home? 

The  new  sun  lighting  up  the  world  to-day 
Makes  beautiful  earth's  bosom  cold  and  stark 

But  for  the  exiled  sheds  no  cheering  ray  — 
All,  all  for  us  is  dark! 


JiALINSKL  423 

But  we,  so  long  as  any  strength  is  left, 

Will  with  sad  hearts  united  as  in  one 
Pray  with  the  voice  of  millions  thus  bereft, 

Give  us  more  sun  —  more  sun! 

WHAT'S   THE   USE   OF   DREAMING? 

What's  the  use  of  our  love-dreams 
Of  plucking  roses  —  promise  beams? 

Roses  shun  our  quest; 
Now  here  like  the  migrating  bird 
We  are  on  the  outpost  afterward  — 

There  perchance  to  rest. 

Hearts,  cease  your  dreaming!  it  is  wrong; 
Bearing  our  cross  with  cheerful  song, 

As  to  a  dance  go; 

No  more  the  sword-hilt  we  shall  clasp, 
But  hands  shall  say  in  friendly  grasp 

God  sends  joy  below. 

Pleasure  may  come  to  us  at  last; 
Thou  knowest,  God,  the  future  vast  — 

What  will  meet  us  there; 
Thou  knowest  to  whom  smiles  are  dear, 
And  whose  grave  in  the  coming  year 

Flowers  shall  make  fair. 

THE   LIVING   CORPSE. 

Near  a  city  there  is  a  grave; 
Sadly  Vistula,  wave  on  wave, 
By  it  ripples,  but  in  the  mound, 
Look  you!  a  living  corpse  is  found. 
Do  not  wonder  —  the  world  is  rife 
With  life  in  death  and  death  in  life. 


424      POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

The  corpse  looks  forth  and  courage  takes, 
Sees  the  people  pass  to  and  fro; 
Friends'  kind  faces  that  come  and  go, 
Newly  hope  in  his  heart  awakes. 
They  come  to  see  me  then,  said  he, 
Ev'ry  one  sighs  and  thinks  of  me. 

But  thinking  naught  about  the  dead, 
Pass  the  people  with  rapid  tread; 
Life  is  short  —  it  were  all  in  vain 
To  fill  their  time  with  thoughts  of  pain. 
Let  the  dead  rest  in  peace,  they  say 
And  let  who  lives  enjoy  his  day! 

At  last  one  comes,  nor  passes  by 
He  gazes  mournfully  around, 
Throws  a  flower  upon  the  mound  — 
His  brow  is  pale  and  sad  his  eye, 
Yet  hastes  he  on  as  others  do; 
Is  he  afraid  of  corpses,  too? 

Then  thought  the  corpse  —  oh,  thanks  to  thee 
My  brother,  none  have  thought  of  me, 
But  all  have  coldly  passed  me  by, 
Light  of  heart,  with  averted  eye, 
All  save  thou  alone,  moaned  he. 
Alas!  they've  all  forgotten  me. 


KORNEL    UJE.JSKL  425 


KORNEL  UJEJSKI. 

KORNEL  UJEJSKI,  the  bosom  friend  of  one  of  the 
most  renowned  Polish  poets  (Julius  Slowacki),  was 
born  in  1823  in  the  county  of  Czortkow,  in  Galicia. 
He  wrote  with  great  perspicuity  and  finish.  His  poems 
are  very  chaste  and  classic.  The  poem  written  on  the 
death  of  Adam  Mickiewicz  only  increased  his  celebrity 
as  a  poet.  His  "Enamored  Bride,''  "The  Dreadful 
Night,"  "The  Funeral  March,"  and  the  biblical  melo- 
dies "Rebecca  and  Jeremiah";  as  also  the  "  Plough 
and  the  Sword,"  are  contributions- to  the  Polish  litera- 
ture of  the  greatest  value.  We  may  also  add  that  lie 
is  the  author  of  "  The  Flowers  Without  Fragrance," 
"The  Withered  Leaves,"  —  compositions  of  great 
.popularity;  but  the  most  popular  poetical  production 
of  Ujejski,  known  and  sung  as  it  were  in  every  palace 
and  cottage,  is  his  "Hymn  of  Complaint "  — "Z  Dy- 
mem  Pozarow," — which  was  written  during  the  ter- 
rible uprising  of  the  peasantry,  instigated  by  rascally 
officials,  in  Galicia  in  1846,  when  towns  and  villages 
were  burned  and  sacked  by  the  infuriated  mob. 

At  this  present  time  he  occupies  the  honorable  posi- 
tion of  a  member  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  in 
Vienna,  Austria.  Mr.  ITjejski  is  a  gentleman  of  high 
scholarly  attainments,  urbane  and  childlike  in  manner, 
and  highly  respected  by  all  classes  of  his  countrymen. 
Editions  of  his  works  in  the  Polish  language  have  been 
published  in  London,  Paris,  Leipsic,  and  Posen. 


426  POETS    AND    POKTRY    OF    POLAND. 

HYMN  OF  COMPLAINT. 
(Z  Dymem  Pozurow). 

With  smoke  of  burning  —  with  blood  outpouring, 

0  Lord!  our  voice  we  raise  to-day 
In  fearful  wailing,  in  last  imploring, 

In  bitter  sorrow  that  turns  us  gray! 
Songs  without  murmur  we  have  no  longer, 

Pierced  are  our  temples  with  thorny  bands, 
Like  Thy  monuments  of  wrath  grown  stronger, 

To  Thee  imploring  we  raise  our  hands! 

0  Lord!  how  often  Thy  hand  has  scourged  us, — 

Our  red  wounds  bleeding  and  yet  unhealed; 
We  sought  Thee  vainly  when  anguish  urged  us: 

Thou  art  our  Father,  and  Thou  shouldst  shield. 
But  when  we  call  Thee  with  hearts  confiding 

Then  does  the  mocker,  with  fury  shod, 
Trample  upon  us  and  ask,  deriding, 

Where  is  that  Father?  where  is  that  God? 

We  search  the  heavens  for  sign  or  token, 

But  suns  of  omen  no  signs  unfold- 
The  silent  azure  is  only  broken 

By  eagle  pinions  that  soared  of  old! 
Our  dreams  grow  fearful — -with  shadows  teeming, 

By  doubts  distracting  our  souls  are  stirred; 
By  hearts  that  suffer  not  rash  blaspheming, 

Judge  us,  0  judge  not  each  frenzied  word! 

0  Lord!  what  horrors,  what  woes  surround  us! 

What  days  of  terror  upon  us  come ! 
The  Cains  are  many  whose  deeds  confound  us, 

The  blood  of  brothers  will  not  be  dumb! 
But  judge  not  sternly, —  their  eyes  are  blinded, 

Nor  see  the  evil  they  do,  0  Lord ! 


KORNEL    UJK.TSKI.  427 

0  punish  instead  the  baser  minded 

Who  roused  the  anger  that  grasped  the  sword! 

In  our  misfortunes  Thou  still  dost  hold  us 

Close  to  Thy  bosom.     We  pray  for  rest 
Like  birds  grown  weary: — Thy  pinions  fold  us, 

Thy  stars  shine  over  our  household  nest. 
Thy  future  favor  reveal  unto  us, 

Thy  hand  protecting  above  us  spread; 
Let  flow'rs  of  suffring  to  slumber  woo  us, 

And  sorrow's  halo  surround  the  head ! 

With  Thine  Archangel  to  go  before  us 

We'll  march  to  battle  and  win  the  fight; 
In  hearts  of  Satans  who  triumphed  o'er  us 

We'll  plant  Thy  standard  of  victor's  might! 
Then  erring  brethren  —  of  error  shriven 

At  Freedom's  symbol  their  knee  shall  bow; 
To  vile  blasphemers —  the  answer  given, 

"  God  is  almighty  and  reigneth  now  !  " 

UNDER  THE  GROUND. 

(Pod  Zieniig — Pod  Zicmig.) 

Under  ground,  under  ground, —  far  away  from  the  crowd, 

Let  me  seek  for  a  peaceable  corner; 
This  laughter  disturbs  me —  this  voice  is  too  loud, 

That  sound  is  like  the  voice  of  a  mourner. 

I  would  heap  on  my  threshold  sharp  thorns  to  repel, 

Place  neai  it  a  lion  for  warder; 
All  alone  with  my  thoughts  undisturbed  I  would  dwell, 

With  only  my  God  for  recorder. 

Around  me  this  every-day  prattling  should  cease, 

All  voices  of  slander  and  scheming; 
Naught  to  darken  the  light  of  my  sweet  reverie 

When,  hand  on  my  head,  I  am  dreaming. 


428       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

0  how  happy  to  rest  from  this  turmoil,  away 
From  cynical  sneers, —  a  calm  sleeper. 

Hearing  not  of  the  envies  —  the  feuds  of  the  day, 
Or  who  in  the  mire  has  sunk  deeper. 

1  am  happier  far  in  beholding  them  not, 

Our  souls  are  so  widely  unmated; 
That  I  shame  when  I  look  on  their  nature's  foul  blot 
To  be  in  man's  image  created. 

My  hand  seldom  meets  in  this  sycophant  throng 

The  pressure  of  brotherly  fingers, 
And  I  feel  in  my  heart  while  its  pride  surges  strong 

That  I  am  the  last  of  God's  singers. 

Surround  me  with  quiet  and  stillness, —  surround, 

Save  but  for  the  kindred  outpouring 
Of  spirits,  who  soaring  on  pinions  unbound 

Break  out  into  tuneful  imploring. 

Where  no  one  will  enter  to  listen  to  me, 
Where  silence  around  me  shall  hover: 

Six  feet  under  ground  let  my  resting-place  be, 
With  one  narrow  board  for  the  cover. 


1GNATZ    HOfcOWlNSKI.  429 


IGNATZ  HOLOWINSKI. 

IGNATZ  HO!OWINSKI,  Archbishop  of  Mobile v,  and 
metropolite  of  Roman  Catholic  churches  in  the  Rus- 
sian empire.  He  was  born  in  1807,  in  Volhynia.  In 
1825  he  entered  the  seminary  at  Luck,  and  after  finish- 
ing his  theological  studies  at  Wilno  he  became  a  chap- 
lain in  1831.  In  1839  he  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the 
Holy  Land,  and  in  1842  was  made  a  rector  to  the 
Roman  Catholic  academy  at  St.  Petersburg.  In  1848 
he  was  named  a  bishop;  three  years  later  (1851)  he 
was  advanced  to  the  high  office  of  Archbishop  of 
Mohilev.  He  died  7th  of  October,  1855. 

Among  his  works  we  can  mention:  "Relations  of 
Philosophy  to  Religion  and  Civilization,"  and  several 
poetical  compositions  of  great  merit.  He  was  not  only 
a  good  poet,  but  also  a  distinguished  orator.  How 
deeply  and  effectively  he  could  work  upon  the  feelings 
of  his  congregation,  the  orator  at  his  funeral,  who 
knew  him  personally,  said:  "From  his  lips  breathed 
the  Holy  Spirit,  and  his  powerful  eloquence  bore  down 
and  crushed  superstition  and  unbelief.  He  softened 
the  hardest  hearts,  and  awakened  from  deadly  lethargy 
the  most  obdurate  sinners.  He  warmed  with  his  piety, 
and  those  who  shed  tears  he  carried  them  up  to 
heaven." 

His  sermons  are  the  deepest  treatises  of  subjects 
he  tried  to  preach,  and  they  were  delivered  in  the 
purest  and  most  charming  eloquence. 


430  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

THE   ORPHAN. 

Hard,  indeed,  is  the  orphan's  life. 

The  orphaned  soul  has  much  to  dread; 
To  labor  on  with  heart  at  strife, 

To  earn  the  bitter  crust  of  bread. 
Oh,  fearful  lot  with  sorrow  rife! 

Little  Josie  was  left  alone 

In  her  fifth  year, —  bereaved  too  young. 
She  from  that  time  had  only  known 

The  charity  from  strangers  wrung. 
0  God !  save  all  beneath  Thy  heaven 
From  charity  by  strangers  given. 

Though  pretty  as  a  flower  to  see, 

Her  soul  with  richest  virtue  fraught, 
What  hand  is  oifered  helpingly? 

Who  for  the  orphan  taketh  thought? 
Whether  her  face  be  bright  with  glee, 

Or  tears  arise  from  sadd'ning  thought, 
Poor  orphan !  all  is  wrong, —  for  she 

Can  satisfy  or  please  in  naught. 

Parents  in  this  God's  world  below 
Caress  the  children  that  He  gives, 
But  she  for  whom  no  parent  lives 

Doth  grieve  for  all  she  must  forego. 

While  all  things  smile  for  those  around, 

In  homes  by  hope,  with  blossoms  crowned. 

For  her  alone  the  world  is  drear, 

The  faces  'round  her  strange  and  cold ; 
What  flowers  upon  her  path  unfold 

She  plucks  and  wets  with  many  a  tear. 

Love,  sympathy,  for  her  are  not. 

Oh,  dreary  is  the  orphan's  lot! 


IGNATZ    HOfcOWINSKI.  131 

When  the  world  shunn'd  her  in  neglect, 

Her  soul  she  raised  in  fervent  prayers. — 
In  heaven  her  consolation  sought, — 

In  Him  who  for  the  orphan  cares, 
The  only  happiness  she  knew 

Her  sweetest  moments  were  when  she 
Would  kneel  beside  her  mother's  grave 

And  pray  to  God  most  fervently. 
And  it  was  then  that  the  white  dove 

Direct  from  heaven  to  her  drew  near, 
Caressed  her  with  its  snowy  wing, 

Coo'd  tenderly  within  her  ear. 
Driving  her  sorrows  all  away, 

Until  her  heart  with  joy  would  swell, 
And  then  the  bird  woxild  gather  up 

The  tears  that  from  her  eyelids  fell, 
And  gently  fluttering  her  wings, 

Carry  them  up  to  paradise. 
Whether  her  mother's  spirit  bore 

These  tears  to  God  from  out  her  eyes 
Who  knows?  but  after  every  prayer 

This  scene,  repeated,  strengthened  her, 
For  further  struggles  with  her  fate 

She  stronger  grew  and  readier. 
But  when  she  reached  her  sixteenth  year 

They  wearied  of  her  where  she  dwelt, 
And  on  her  coldly  shut  the  door, 

So  by  her  mother's  grave  she  knelt, 
Dewed  it  with  tears  in  farewell  shed, 

Then  turning  from  her  native  place 
She  followed  where  her  vision  led. 

Not  far  beyond  the  forest  road 

.  There  rose  a  castle  grand  and  gray, 
On  either  side  the  river  flowed, 
And  further  on  a  village  lay. 


432  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

With  two  attandants  at  his  side 

Its  lord  was  riding,  pensive  eyed, 
Across  the  bridge.     Though  young,  a  trace 

Of  sadness  lingered  on  his  face. 
Then  slackening  his  horse's  r-ein, 

In  silent  thought  he  seemed  to  brood ; 
Slow  paced  the  steed  with  drooping  mane, 

As  though  he  shared  his  master's  mooi. 

And  thus,  in  melancholy-wise 

He  neared  a  grove  that  lay  apart 
And  lifting  up  his  downcast  eyes, 

Fear  took  possession  of  his  heart. 
For  he  beheld  a  stranger  maid, — 
Who  walked  with  folded  hands  and  prayed,- 

By  white-robed  angels  circled  round, 
And  in  their  midst,  with  heavenly  mien, 
One  clad  in  robes  of  brightest  sheen, — 

Her  brow  with  starry  halo  crowned. 
The  youth  gazed,  wonderstruck,  and  saw 

How  from  the  maiden's  lips,  at  close 
Of  every  prayer, —  oh,  sight  of  awe !  — 

Came  forth  a  beautiful  red  rose. 
How  with  each  Ave  Maria  said 

Fell  from  her  lips  a  lily  white, 
And  these  the  angels  gathered 

And  wove  into  a  chaplet  bright, 
And  offered  it  unto  their  queen, 
Who  placed  it  with  a  smile  serene 

Upon  the  orphan's  bended  head. 
Then  passed  the  vision  from  his  eyes, 
With  fragrance  left  of  paradise. 

The  young  man  fell  upon  his  knees 
Before  the  maiden  then,  as  she, 

O'ercome  by  fear,  had  turned  to  flee 
Because  that  she  was  unaware 


IGNATZ    HOfiOWINSKI.  433 

Of  all  these  heavenly  mysteries 

That  happened  round  her  while  at  prayer. 

"  Oh,  do  not  be  alarmed,  but  stay," 

Cried  the  abashed  and  trembling  youth. 
"  God's  mercy  sent  you  here  this  day 

A  consolation  sweet, —  in  truth. 
Hear  me  while  I  recount  to  you 

How  two  brief  years  ago  it  was, 
Heaven  took  my  parents  hence;  I,  too, 

Up  to  this  hour  have  mourned, —  alas! 
With  tears  that  still  mine  eyes  bedew. 

So  deeply  was  the  burden  laid 

On  me,  my  life  began  to  fade. 
But  listen:  last  night  in  a  dream 

My  parents  came  and  said  to  me: 
'  Oh,  why  oppose  God's  will  supreme 

In  mourning  thus  incessantly? 
Know  then  that  we  are  happier  here 

Than  when  we  lingered  on  the  earth, 
That  thou  didst  love  us  and  revere? 

God  will  reward  thee;  though  the  maid 
That  for  thy  wife  He  destineth 

Is  poor  and  but  of  humble  birth. 
His  mother,  unto  whom  she  prayed, 

Will  stoop  and  crown  her  with  a  wreath.' 
And  I  indeed  have  witnessed  how, 

Amid  an  angel  band  but  now, 
She  placed  the  wreath  upon  thy  brow." 

Trembling  the  maiden  looked  at  him, 
While  blushes  dried  each  falling  tear, 

Then  as  from  spheres  of  seraphim 
Came  down  the  snowy  plumaged  dove 

To  whisper  words  of  peace  and  love 
Into  the  orphan's  listening  ear. 


434       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Then  Josie  raised  the  youth,  who  still 
Kneeled  waiting  humbly  at  her  feet, 
And  faltered  in  confusion  sweet: 

"  God's  will  be  done  if  'tis  His  will." 

And  long  before  the  day  was  done 
Beside  the  little  chapel's  shrine 

The  youth  and  maid  together  stood. 
God  joined  forevermore  as  one. 
And  Josie  to  her  life's  decline 

Relieved  the  wants  of  orphanhood. 


KRASZEWSKI. 


436 


KRASZEWSKI.  437 


KRASZEWSKI. 

JOSEPH  IGNATZ  KRASZEWSKI,  born  in  1812,  is  one  of 
the  most  prolific  not  only  of  Polish  litterateurs,  but  of 
the  world.  Only  Lopez  de  Vega  and  Pere  Dumas 
could  approach  him  in  literary  fertility.  Incredible  as 
it  may  appear,  over  two  hundred  volumes  of  his 
miscellaneous  writings  have  been  published;  and  still 
more  astonishing,  that  all  of  them  are  works  of  great 
erudition  and  merit.  The  most  discriminating  critic 
could  hardly  designate  which  is  the  best. 

But  that  is  not  all:  Kraszewski,  who  at  the  present 
writing  of  this  biographical  sketch  resides  in  Dresden, 
Saxony,  is  a  man  of  rare  qualities  of  the  heart  and 
mind,  respected  and  honored  not  only  by  his  own 
countrymen,  but  also  by  all  the  literary  men  of  the 
world  who  are  personally  acquainted  with  him.  His 
literary  creations  always  aimed  to  correct  the  heart  and 
the  spirit  of  his  nationality,  and  to  lift  up  the  heart 
and  the  spirit  of  humanity  at  large.  It  is  for  these 
reasons  that  the  heart  of  the  Polish  Nation  justly 
swells  with  pride  that  Kraszewski  is  a  Pole,  and  the 
son  of  the  same  country  as  themselves. 

Kraszewski  labored  in  almost  all  branches  of  litera- 
ture, and  whatever  he  wrote  he  wrote  upon  the  founda- 
tion of  truth;  truly  it  may  be  said  that  the  famous 
Amalthea  was  always  standing  by  his  side  with  her 
"  Horn  of  Plenty,"  and  poured  out  the  poet's  thoughts 
gracefully  and  with  a  generous  profusion. 

The  most  extraordinary  phenomenon  in  the  history 
of  Kraszewski's  life  is  the  ovation  which  he  received 
year  before  last  (1879)  in  the  city  of  Cracow,  on  the 


438  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

fiftieth  anniversary  of  his  great  literary  labors.  Hun- 
dreds, and  we  may  say  thousands,  without  distinction 
of  creeds,  parties,  or  opinions,  turned  out  to  greet  this 
distinguished  veteran  of  literature,  and  this  great  na- 
tional demonstration  lasted  for  several  days.  Two 
monarchs  honored  him  with  tokens  of  their  esteem. 
Kraszewski  received  these  congratulations  with  mod- 
esty becoming  a  great  man,  representing  a  great  peo- 
ple. This  great  celebration  was  also  participated  in 
by  many  distinguished  representatives  of  other  nation- 
alities; and  the  interesting  fact  will  go  down  into  his- 
tory that  the  pulse  of  the  Polish  national  heart  beat 
in  the  year  1879  with  as  much  patriotic  fervor  as  in  the 
days  of  Poland's  glory  or  her  —  misfortunes! 

We  may  add  here  that  the  memorable  event  was 
also  celebrated  by  the  Poles  almost  all  over  the  United 
States  of  America.  In  the  city  of  Chicago  especially 
the  celebration,  under  the  auspices  of  two  Polish  socie- 
ties— "Gmina  Polska  in  Chicago,"  and  "Kosciuszko," 
was  of  large  proportions  and  attended  by  hundreds; 
not  only  Poles,  but  other  nationalities. 

A  handsome  memorial  was  gotten  up,  with  an  appro- 
priate inscription,  and  sent  to  Dresden  to  the  veteran 
of  Polish  literature  by  his  admiring  and  grateful  coun- 
trymen. 

The  following  are  some  of  his  works:  "Miscella- 
neous Poems,"  Wilno,  1838;  "  Anafielas,"  or  songs 
from  the  legends  of  Lithuania;  " Witolorauda," 
"Hymns  of  Pain,"  "Metamorphoses,"  "Wonders 
and  Failings  of  the  Age,"  "  Lancers  and  Bondurak," 
"Four  Weddings  of  Charles,"  "laryna,"  etc.  etc. 
The  works  of  Kraszewski  will  prove  a  precious  mine 
to  a  future  historian. 


KRASZEWSKI.  439 

AH  !  MY  DEAR  ANGEL  ! 
"  O  moj  Aniele!  p6jd£iem  poiaiczeni." 

WRITTEN   IN   YOUNGEK   DAYS 

Ah!  my  dear  angel!  united  we'll  be 

Through  the  world,  through  life,  through   pleasure  and 

grief; 

As  the  green  vine  that  clings  'round  the  oak  tree, 
And  fondles  the  bark  with  its  tender  leaf, 
Thus  will  we  ever  together  be! 

As  two  clear  tear-drops  that  rest  in  the  eye, 
As  two  deep  sighs  from  the  heart  that  is  true 

Together  we'll  journey  till  death  draws  nigh, 
You  ever  with  me,  T  ever  with  you, 

In  this  world,  in  heaven,  in  the  grave! 

Ah!  my  dear  angel!  together  we'll  go 

Through  this  cold  world  and  through  life's  changful  role, 
Through  storms  of  autumn,  though  whirlwinds  may  blow, 

Ever  together  thou  friend  of  my  soul 
Like  unto  two  crystal  tears ! 

THE  SEA. 

What  has  the  earth,  0  sea!  more  beautiful  than  thou? 

Where  in  creation  dwells  a  majesty  like  thine? 
Nought  can  destroy  in  thee  the  charm  to  which  we  bow; 
In  sight  of  earth  and  heaven  thy  grandeur  is  divine. 
Thy  boundlessness  evolved  from  the  creating  will 
Forecasts  eternity,  and  says  to  pride  "  Be  still  ! " 

Whether  the  sun  looks  down  into  thy  billowy  green 

Or  sinks  its  burning  rays  in  thy  translucent  breast, 
Suffusing  thee  in  flames  of  gold  and  crimson  sheen, 
Or  with  the  opal  glow  wherein  the  dove  is  dressed: — 
Whether  dark  night  comes  on  or  Menes  pale  draws  near 
To  leave  upon  thy  waste  his  traces  silver  clear, 


440       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Still  art  thou  beautiful  —  still  wonderfully  grand ! 

The  human  eye  that  rests  on  thy  immensity 
Draws  from  thy  depth  high  thoughts,  to  which  our   souls 

expand, 

More  precious  than  the  pearls  and  corals  hid  in  thee; 
And  to  thy  witching  sounds  the  ear  does  list  amazed: 
In  them  we  seem  to  hear  how  God,  the  Lord,  is  praised. 

Thy  silence  is  sublime,  and  terrible  thy  roar 

When  thy  blue  field  puts  on  its  somber-green  attire; 
In  storms  thou  hurlest  thee  against  the  rugged  shore, 

Throwing  thy  snow-white  foam  from  out  thy  breast  in  ire; 
Thou  fill'st  man's  heart  with  dread  lest  in  thy  wild  unrest 
Thou  shouldst  engulf  the  earth  within  thy  angry  breast! 

BIORO  DRAWER  AND  THE  HEAD. 

A  certain  man  renowned 

For  learning  most  profound 
His  bioro  drawer  showed  to  me. 

"  Behold  these  papers !  what  a  store 

I  have  for  thirty  years  or  more 
Been  putting  in  this  drawer,"  said  he. 

"  My  worthy  friend,  I  tell  you  true 
They're  full  of  wisdom  —  learning  too." 

But  one  who  notice  chanced  to  take 

Of  all  their  talk  said:  "What  a  pity" 
(I  don't  know  as  it  was  witty 

For  him  such  a  remark  to  make). 

That  which  we  ever  look  to  find  — 
Wisdom  and  learning  —  in  the  head 
Were  by  this  gentleman  instead 

To  his  bioro  drawer  consigned. 


SIKNKIKWICZ.  441 


SIENKIEWICZ. 

CHARLES  SIENKIEWICZ  was  born  in  Ukraine,  and  re- 
ceived his  education  in  the  city  of  Human;  then  lie 
went  to  Winnica,  and  finally  finished  his  studies  at 
Krzemieniec.  Very  soon  after  he  went  in  company  of 
Zamoyskis  and  traveled  for  several  years  in  Europe, 
but  the  most  of  his  time  was  passed  in  England  and 
Scotland.  After  his  return  to  his  native  land  he  super- 
intended the  extensive  library  of  Prince  Adam  Czarto- 
ryiski,  at  Pulawy.  After  the  downfall  of  the  revolu- 
tion of  1830  he  joined  the  emigration,  and  leaving 
Poland,  settled  in  Paris,  where  he  was  very  diligently 
engaged  in  the  cause  of  the  Polish  emigration.  Through 
his  own  and  Niemcewicz's  influence  there  was  estab- 
lished, in  1838,  in  Paris,  a  Polish  historical  depart- 
ment, which  finally  was  stocked  with  a  library  of 
30,000  volumes.  In  his  younger  days  he  gave  him- 
self up  to  poetry.  His  translation  of  Walter  Scott's 
"  Lady  of  the  Lake"  ranks  among  the  best  translations 
of  English  poetry  into  the  Polish  language.  While  the 
chief  superintendent  of  the  library  of  PuJawy  he  em- 
ployed himself  with  great  self-denial  in  completing  a 
catalogue  of  the  duplicates  of  the  library.  Then  he 
wrote  an  addition  to  Bentkowski's  "  Polish  Literature." 
Besides  these  he  wrote  on  political  economy  and  "An 
Account  of  the  Present  State  of  Greece,"  which  he  fin- 
ished in  1830.  While  in  Paris  he  gave  himself  up 
entirely  to  historical  labors,  and  it  was  through  his  ex- 
ertions that  "The  Chronicles  of  the  Polish  Emigration  " 
were  published,  from  1835  to  1838,  in  eight  volumes, 
three  of  which  were  exclusively  his  own  labor.  He 


442       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

then  wrote  "Treasures  of  the  Polish  History,"  in  four 
volumes  — 1839-42  —  with  valuable  additional  mate- 
rials to  the  history  of  Poland,  which  he  elucidated  in  a 
very  learned  and  interesting  manner.  In  1854  he  pub- 
lished a  work  in  the  French  language,  "Documents 
Historiques  relatif  a  la  Russie  et  la  Pologne,"  in  three 
volumes.  Just  before  his  death  he  finished  a  manual 
of  Polish  history  for  the  high  Polish  school  at  Batig- 
nolle.  He  died  in  Paris  in  1860.  After  his  death  his 
writings  and  literary  labors  were  published,  in  1864. 

VARSOVIENNE. 

"  Oto  clziS  d/.ieri  krwi  i  chwaly." 

i. 
Poles,  awake!  'tis  your  day  of  glory. 

Arise,  oh  arise  in  your  might! 
You  will  live  in  deathless  story 

Should  you  fall  in  your  country's  fight. 
Where  the  rainbow  in  heaven  is  beaming 

As  he  basks  in  July's  brilliant  ray, 
Your  white  eagle's  eye  is  gleaming 
As  he  calls  to  the  glorious  fray. 

On,  true  Poles!     See,  the  foe  is  before  us! 

Sound  the  charge  and  the  day  is  won ! 
With  our  sacred  banner  spread  o'er  us, 
On  for  freedom  and  Poland,  on! 


The  fierce  Cossack  has  mounted  his  legions, 
Our  young  freedom  to  crush  in  its  birth; 

But  soon  o'er  his  mountain  regions 
We'll  trample  his  hopes  in  the  earth. 

Barbarians!     Your  visions  of  booty, 
Though  ye  triumph,  will  soon  be  fled; 


SIENKIEWICZ.  443 

For  the  Pole  knows  a  soldier's  duty, 

And  will  leave  you  nought  but  the  dead. 
On,  true  Potes!  etc. 

in. 
Kosciuszko,  arise!  and  aid  us 

To  root  from  the  soil  our  foe, 
Who  has  promised,  deceived,  betrayed  us, 

Steeping  Praga  in  carnage  and  woe. 
Let  the  blood  of  the  murderer  flowing 

Enrich  each  grassy  tomb 

Where  our  flow'rets  of  victory  growing 

Shall  more  gayly,  more  gorgeously  bloom. 
On,  true  Poles!  etc. 


Parent  land,  thy  children  returning 

This  day  would  deserve  thy  smile, 
Thy  altars  with  wreaths  adorning 

From  the  Kremlin,  the  Tyber,  the  Nile. 
Years  have  passed  since  each  exiled  brother 

His  native  land  has  press'd; 
Should  he  fall  there  now,  oh  mother! 

On  thy  bosom  he  will  sweetly  rest. 
On,  ti'ue  Poles!  etc. 

v. 
Gallant  Poles,  to  the  battle  rally, 

To  humble  the  tyrant  czar ! 
And  in  each  heroic  sally 

Bear  the  ring  in  the  front  of  the  war; 
Let  that  gift  of  our  Poland's  daughters 

Be  the  charm  to  freeze  to  foe, 
While  gemmed  in  an  hundred  slaughters 

Our  symbol  of  victory  will  glow. 
On,  true  Poles!  etc. 


444       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


VI. 


0  ye  French !  what  bloody  arena 

Did  the  Poles  shun  in  fighting  for  you? 
Was  it  Wagram,  Marengo,  or  Jena, 

Dresden,  Leipzig,  or  Waterloo? 
When  the  woild  had  betrayed  to  enslave  you 

Did  the  Pole  yield  to  the  coward's  fears? 
0  brethren!  our  life-blood  we  gave  you; 
In  return  you  give  us  but  tears. 

On,  true  Poles!     See,  the  foe  is  before  us! 

Sound  the  charge  and  the  day  is  won! 
With  our  sacred  banner  spread  o'er  us, 
On  for  freedom  and  Poland,  on! 


ZMORSKI.  445 


ZMORSKI. 

ROMAN  ZMORSKI,  besides  possessing  great  poetic 
talents,  should  also  be  credited  with  another  inesti- 
mable quality, —  his  great  ability  as  a  translator.  But 
that  is  not  all.  In  rendering  translations  Ii6  preserved 
the  spirit  and  colors  of  the  originals,  a  fact  acknowl- 
edged by  all  who  read  his  renditions  from  the  Serbian 
into  the  Polish,  and  who  well  understood  both  lan- 
guages. He  was  so  great  an  adept  in  the  art  of  trans- 
lation that  he  invariably  preserved  even  the  original 
form.  Everything  he  attempted  in  literature  he  in- 
fused into  it  a  peculiar  literary  freshness,  and  this  rare 
virtue  especially  pervades  his  translation  of  the  le- 
gends taken  from  the  literary  treasury  of  peoples  still 
young  and  unripe  in  civilization,  but  strong  in  the 
faith  of  heaven  and  the  love  of  earth. 

The  following  translations  of  Serbian  poetry  by 
Zmorski  may  be  mentioned:  1.  "National  Songs  of 
Serbia,"  published  at  Warsaw,  1853;  2.  "The  Castle 
of  Seven  Chiefs, "founded  on  tradition,  Lemberg,  1857, 
and  a  second  edition,  illustrated  by  Gerson,  Warsaw, 
1860;  3.  "The  Royal  Prince,  Marko, "  Warsaw,  1859; 
4.  "  Lazarica,"  Warsaw,  1860.  Mr.  Zmorski,  having 
lived  in  Serbia  and  knowing  the  people  and  their 
tongue  well,  could  appreciate  the  beauty  and  value 
of  their  many  songs,  and  we  acknowledge  that  he  has 
rendered  a  great  service  to  Polish  literature  by  his 
conscientious  translations,  for  it  has  been  of  great 
importance  to  the  Polish  nation  to  obtain  a  correct 
knowledge  of  these  valiant  people,  which  in  our  times 
have  been  called  into  a  new  life. 


446  POETS    AND    POKTRY    OF    POLAND. 

The  translator,  however,  for  better  and  more  faith- 
ful rendition,  used  the  blank  verse,  and  if  in  one  re- 
spect he  deprived  them  of  exterior  ornaments,  on  the 
other  hand  he  preserved  strictly  the  original  spirit 
and  the  true  meaning.  He  is  also  the  author  of 
"Leslaw,"  a  fantastic  tale. 

Mr.  Zmorski  was  quite  a  distinguished  Polish  poet; 
was  born  at  Warsaw  in  1824,  and  died  in  1866. 

SIGHS    FROM   A   FAB-OFF   LAND. 

In  a  strange  and  cold  land, 

Strangers  on  ev'ry  hand, 
Sadly,  wearily,  time  passes  o'er. 

Oh!  billows  pearly  white, 

Vistula's  sands  gold  bright, 
When,  oh  when  shall  I  see  you  once  more? 

The  weary  soul  must  stay, 

Though  fain  would  fly  away, 
For  all  the  time  her  dreams  are  of  thee; 

Narev's  and  Buh's*  shores  afar 

My  mem'ry's  flowers  are 
Remembrance  of  happy  days.     Ah,  me! 

As  with  Masovia's  f  song, 

So  sad,  so  wild,  and  strong, 
The  old  woods  roar  in  my  ears  alway; 

In  cemeteries'  shade, 

From  graves  where  sires  are  laid, 
I  listen  to  what  their  spirits  say. 

Dear  brethren,  kindred  band! 
Woods  of  my  fatherland! 

*  Narev  and  Buh,  names  of  two  rivers. 
t  Masovia,  a  province  of  Poland 


ZMOKSKI.  447 

Ye  plains!  and  our  godly  world  and  best! 

I  with  my  thoughts  and  heart 

Am  ne'er  from  you  apart, 
Your  own  spirit  breathes  within  my  breast. 

My  strength  and  sword  ye  ai-e, 

My  chief  and  brightest  star 
Midst  storms,  heat  and  cold  and  wandering; 

When  grief  has  passed  away, 

God  at  some  future  day 
A  resurrection  hymn  will  let  us  sing. 

IN    PEASANT'S   CLOTHES. 

Like  peasants,  brethren,  let  us  dress, 

If  you  wish  the  people  to  lead; 
Our  love  alone  does  not  express 

Enough.     To  dress  like  them  we  need 

Minds  o'er  whom  folly  holds  the  sway, 

Who  feel  the  ridicule  of  fops, 
Let  them  speak  in  a  foreign  way 

And  put  on  clothes  from  foreign  shops. 

Whom  fashion  vain  a  god  has  made, 
And  whose  contempt  the  people  know, 

Let  him  in  foreign  clothes  arrayed, 
Wear  the  apparel  of  the  foe. 

Where  Kosqiuszko's  steps  have  led 

Let's  follow  in  the  people's  dress; 
Let  spirit  and  appearance  wed 

The  Polish  nation,  bind  and  bless. 

•  Like  peasants,  brethren,  let  us  dress, 

If  you  wish  the  people  to  lead; 
Our  love  alone  does  not  express 

Enough.     To  dress  like  them  we  need. 


448  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 


ZMICHOWSKA. 

NARCISSA  ZMICHOWSKA  (Gabryela),  a  sweet  and 
charming  poetess,  was  born  at  Warsaw  on  the  4th  of 
March,  1819.  A  sepulchral  mound  raised  to  her 
memory  only  two  years  ago  will  be  a  place  of  pilgrim- 
age to  all  who  appreciate  genius  and  unblemished  char- 
acter. Three  days  after  she  was  born  her  mother  died, 
and  Narcissa  was  left  an  orphan.  This  orphanage  has 
left  traces  of  deep  sadness  on  her;  she  was  not,  how- 
ever, left  without  a  good  guardianship;  her  aunt  took 
her  and  brought  her  up  with  the  greatest  care.  Under 
her  eyes  the  young  flower  of  a  maiden  began  to  bloom 
and  develop  most  charmingly.  She  very  early  evinced 
extraordinary  capabilities  for  learning  and  quickness  of 
comprehension,  and  gave  great  promise  of  future  dis- 
tinction. Besides  that,  another  great  and  exalted  feel- 
ing began  to  unfold  itself  in  Gabryela,  and  that  was 
the  patriotic  love  of  her  country.  One  of  her  brothers, 
who  was  concerned  in  the  revolution  of  1831,  was  com- 
pelled to  emigrate  into  foreign  lands,  and  for  him,  the 
unfortunate  wanderer,  she  felt  the  greatest  affection. 

She  received  her  initiatory  education  at  the  home  of 
her  aunt,  and  then  she  was  sent  to  the  Young  Ladies' 
Pension,  under  the  supervision  of  Madam  Wilczynska, 
the  best  institution  of  the  kind  in  Warsaw.  Under  the 
guidance  of  this  distinguished  preceptress,  fitting  her- 
self for  a  teacher,  •  Narcissa  finished  her  course  with 
eminent  success.  She  was  then  employed  in  the 
family  of  Count  Zamoyski  as  a  private  teacher,  and 
finally  settled  in  Paris.  Here  for  the  first  time  she 
tried  her  hand  at  composition  and  wrote  a  few  pictures 


ZMICIIOWSKA.  449 

of  her  travels  —  " Gibraltar,"  and  "The  Ruins  of 
Luxor,"  which  were  published  in  the  "Warsaw  Li- 
brary "'in  1842.  The  third  piece,  entitled  "The 
Storm,*'  was  published  in  the  periodical  called  "The 
Star."  These  poetic  pictures  attracted  great  attention; 
the  scenes,  the  word-painting,  the  richness  of  fancy 
and  loftiness  of  thought,  were  greatly  admired  by  all, 
litterateurs  not  excepted.  Jachowicz,  the  poet,  was 
enchanted  with  these  novel  effusions,  and  while  read- 
ing the  effusion  "The  Storm  "  predicted  great  fame  to 
the  young  authoress. 

The  residing  in  Paris  had  a  great  influence  in  un- 
folding Narcissa's  genius.  Paris  'in  those  days  was 
the  place  of  abode  of  the  most  distinguished  Polish 
poets.  Mickiewicz,  Slowacki,  Krasinski,  and  Goszczyn- 
ski  were  still  living,  and  Narcissa  became  acquainted 
with  them  all.  Bohdan  Zaleski,  who  is  still  living, 
was  also  among  them.  Her  poem  "Happiness  of  the 
Poet"  was  published  in  "  The  Violet,"  where  the  in- 
fluence of  Mickiewicz  is  plainly  seen;  but  aside  from 
that,  we  here  discover  in  the  sound  of  this  young 
poetess'  lute  a  combination  of  the  manly  power  of 
expression  with  woman's  tenderness  of  feeling. 

The  originality  of  her  poetic  talent  is  still  more 
strongly  depicted  in  her  later  compositions.  A  copious 
collection  in  prose  and  verse  was  published  at  Posen 
in  1845,  entitled  "  Idle  Hours  of  Gabryela."  They 
contain  larger  poems,  fugitive  pieces,  and  also  tales  in 
prose.  The  critics  welcomed  their  appearance  unani- 
mously. They  justly  saw  ip  Gabryela  a  new  shining 
star  in  the  heavens  of  native  literature. 

The  poetess,  who  carried  in  her  heart  the  ideal  of 
justice  and  love,  oftentimes  touches  in   her  creations 
the  strings  of  social  degradation,  misery,  and  egotism. 
29 


450       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 

Whenever  she  mentions  these  subjects  her  heart  swells 
with  feeling  either  of  contempt,  pity,  misery,  or  unrest. 
A  great  knowledge  of  human  nature  characterizes  all 
her  writings,  especially  her  tales  written  in  prose. 
Indeed,  there  are  but  few  authors  who  possess  a  deeper 
feeling  and  a  more  extensive  store  of  psychological 
knowledge.  Returning  to  the  enumeration  of  her  works 
we  can  mention  the  following:  "The  Curse,'1  '"The 
Problem,"  "Uncertainty,"  "Certainty,"  "Weary," 
"Reality,"  "The  Kind  Maiden,"  "  Longing,"  "  En- 
chantment," "Impossibility,"  "The  Gift,"  "  What  I 
Would  Give  You,"  "For  the  Loved  Ones,"  "The 
Orphan,"  and  "To  My  Little  Girls,"  which  we  give 
below. 

Although  the  ideal  principally  illumed  her  path, 
yet  with  her  exalted  thoughts  and  quick  comprehension 
of  the  great  problems  of  humanity,  she  united  every- 
day practical  knowledge  of  life;  her  life  was  a  unity  of 
all  these,  and  hence  the  reason  why  it  was  so  harmo- 
nious and  beautiful.  At  this  time  there  was  no  lack  of 
distinguished  women  in  Poland;  yet  Zmichowska  did 
not  occupy  a  second  place  among  them  for  reasons 
above  mentioned. 

There  is  considerable  similarity  between  Gabryela 
and  George  Sand ;  there  is  a  striking  resemblance  be- 
tween the  richness  of  their  language  and  loftiness  of 
their  style;  they  were  alike  in  the  deep  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart;  there  was  a  similarity  in  their  noble 
thoughts  and  sympathies.  If  there  was  any  difference 
between  these  two  genial  women  it  falls  to  the  credit 
of  Gabryela.  She  was  a  true  Polish  woman,  and  that 
preserved  her  from  unbelief  and  the  fanciful  attempts 
as  to  the  emancipation  of  women.  Religion  and  the 
old  Polish  traditions,  which  put  women  on  the  highest 


ZMICHOWSKA.  451 

possible  plane,  kept  her  mind  away  from  traveling  the 
pathless  track.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  her  mind  had 
somewhat  traveled  through  the  philosophical  causeways 
of  doubt  as  other  reflecting  and  independent  minds  do 
travel  ;  but  she  returned  to  the  path  of  faith  and  affir- 
mation, led  by  the  above  mentioned  Polish  traditions. 

Much  of  her  time  was  occupied  in  the  education  of 
young  ladies,  and  that  gained  for  her  a  great  reputa- 
tion as  one  of  the  most  accomplished  and  successful 
teachers  in  the  country.  Besides  the  invaluable  influ- 
ence she  exerted  by  her  writings  and  educating  young 
ladies,  she  had  still  greater  influence  upon  society  by 
fostering  and  keeping  up  the  patriotic  spirit.  She  was 
kind,  aifable,  and  winning  in  her  manner,  and  knew 
how  to  address  the  young  generation  in  her  familiar 
conversations  with  them.  In  fact,  she  was  sure  to  im- 
prove the  hearts  and  minds  of  all  those  who  came  in 
contact  with  her. 

She  lived  alternately  in  the  provinces  and  in  War- 
saw, and  after  the  year  1863  she  went  to  France  to 
attend  the  funeral  of  a  beloved  brother,  who  died  there 
while  a  wanderer  in  a  strange  land.  Her  brother's 
death  seemed  to  have  thrown  a  shadow  over  her  life, 
and  those  who  personally  knew  her  in  her  own  coun- 
try, always  full  of  energy  and  activity,  could  hardly 
realize  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  her,  she 
became  so  unspeakably  sad.  Yet  toward  the  end  of 
her  life  her  wonted  energy  returned.  The  sight  of 
many  young  persons  who  grew  up,  as  it  were,  amidst 
the  ruins  without  losing  their  patriotic  spirit,  revived 
her  energies,  and  she  again  became  an  arduous  and 
tireless  co-laborer  for  the  general  good  and  usefulness 
of  the  whole  country. 

In  her  elegiac  poem  "  Why  Am  I  So  Sad  ?  "  which 


452  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

is  one  of  the  most  touching  compositions  of  the  kind 
in  the  Polish  language,  guessing  at  the  many  probable 
causes  of  her  sadness,  she  intimates  in  the  most  feel- 
ing and  yet  the  most  delicate  manner  that  she  loves 
some  one,  but  not  being  allowed  to  divulge  the  secret 
to  the  world,  she  says  she  can  confide  it  only  to  God. 
Her  last  labor  was  a  tale,  printed  in  the  news- 
paper "  Wiek  "  (The  Age),  entitled  "  Is  This  a  Tale  ?  "  , 
She  wrote  it  with  almost  benumbed  hand,  and  when 
she  was  not  able  to  write  herself  on  account  of  long- 
suffering  pain,  she  dictated  it  from  a  bed  of  sickness, 
and  was  very  anxious  and  much  concerned  about  this 
last  literary  effort  of  her  life,  it  being  a  testament  of  a 
living  spirit.  Upon  this  story  one  could  expand  a 
studium  upon  the  development  of  her  mind  and  its 
fullness  at  the  last  hour. 

With  little  diminutive  analyses  of  feeling  as  to  the 
relations  of  every-day  life,  there  existed  in  the  mind  of 
Gabryela  a  lofty  soaring  of  the  mind,  encompassing 
great  expanse  and  numerous  visions.  She  was,  as  she 
herself  says,  very  bashful  and  at  the  same  time  auda- 
cious in  her  spirit  conceptions,  which  gave  to  her 
writings  a  stamp  of  independent  -originality.  Her 
works  carry  one  away  into  the  regions  of  fancy,  and  then 
again  furnish  a  solid  food  for  reflection.  They  appear 
like  the  antique  cameos,  of  which  one  is  uncertain 
which  to  admire  the  most  —  the  striking  expression  of 
the  sculptured  relief  or  the  unaffected  subtlety  of  the 
finish. 

Zmichowska  expired  on  the  26th  of  December,  1876, 
surrounded  by  a  great  but  mourning  circle  of  relatives 
and  sincere  friends.  Before  her  death  she  received 
many  heartfelt  tokens  of  respect  and  gratitude  of 
people  advanced  already  in  years,  as  well  as  from  the 


ZMICHOWSKA.  453 

younger  generation,  as  a  woman  whose  task  to  labor 
for  the  good  of  all  was  the  chief  and  only  aim  of  her 
noble  life,  full  of  trials  and  sacrifices. 

Gabryela  was  buried  in  Warsaw  on  the  28th,  from 
the  Church  of  All  Saints.  She  was  followed  to  the 
grave  by  a  great  concourse  of  people,  almost  all  repre- 
sentatives of  mental  and  patriotic  life.  The  youth  of 
the  University  carried  the  precious  remains  from  the 
catafalque  to  the  grave. 

FANCY  FLIGHTS. 

He.  I'll  take  a  candle,  lantern,  and  a  burning  brand, 
To  search  if  there's  an  honest  girl  in  the  land. 

She.  I'll  take  the  moon,  the  stars — I'll  take  the  bright  sun, 
To  find  a  man  with  loving  heart  —  perhaps  there's  one. 

He.  I  have  looked,  I  have  searched,  till  convinced  in  the  matter, 
To  find  a  good  girl  man  must  shake  his  gold  at  her. 

She.  I've  looked  with  persistence,  and  it's  plain  to  be  seen 
That  men  can  love  deeply  —  love  themselves,  I  mean. 

He.  I  have  found  one  very  honest  —  one  I  could  adore ; 
Quiet  and  pretty, —  a  painted  doll  in  a  store. 

She.  After  much  painstaking  I've  found  the  one  I  thought, 
A  handsome,  gay  warrior,  but  on  canvas  wrought. 

He.  Just  let  the  painted  doll  show  feeling  in  her  eyes, 
The  warrior  might  to  horseback  from  canvas  arise. 

She.  If  the  young  warrior  on  the  horseback  sat 

He  might  find  the  painted  doll's  heart  went  pit-a-pat. 

LONGING. 

I  yearn  in  winter  for  the  flowers  to  blow, 

And  when  they  give  me  greeting  in  the  spring, 
I  long  for  the  while  bind-weeds  blossoming, 

And  with  its  blossoming  a  flake  of  snow. 


454  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 

For  brotherly  companionship  I  yearn, 

When  with  my  brother  —  then  for  you  I  long. 
With  you  the  yearning  for  my  God  grows  strong 

With  Him  my  longings  for  the  world  return. 

The  good  and  evil  that  constrains  iny  soul 
Whate'er  I  long  for  —  whatsoe'er  I  fear, 
My  thoughts  and  impulses  from  year  to  year, 

As  my  own  life,  are  but  a  longing  whole  ! 

TO  MY  LITTLE  GIRLS. 

My  little  girls,  you  haste  too  much  your  gaze 

Into  the  future  and  believe  its  days, 

Will  like  paymaster  just  to  pay  all  due 

From  its  stores  large  interest  render  you. 

But  o'er  this  thought  old  people  shake  their  heads, 

The  hope  of  happiness  a  false  light  sheds 

To  them;  yet  listen!  there  is  happiness, 

It  even  comes  this  weary  world  to  bless; 

Your  years  is  happiness  —  so  innocent 

The  childish  and  the  youthful  sweetly  blent; 

Without  experience  but  without  care 

Your  bread  for  coming  morrows  to  prepare, 

Whether  exhausted  pleasure's  sources  bright, 

Whether  till  eve  will  linger  morning's  light. 

Blessed  the  first  spring  days  so  glad,  so  free; 

Blessed  the  joyful  days  of  youth;  for  thee 

The  trees'  perfume,  the  nightingale's  refrain; 

Bodah,  the  poet,  sings  for  thee  this  strain: 

"  Thou'rt  a  dream  of  flowers,  a  golden  dream; 

Ideal  of  faith  and  virtue  —  pure,  supreme." 

But  o'er  these  dreams, —  o'er  freedom,  too,  in  truth,- 

There's  still  a  greater  happiness,  0  youth ! 

Yes,  'tis  still  greater,  more  alluring  still. 

It's  voice  is  soft  and  innocent.     It  will, 


ZMICHOWSKA.  455 

With  prayer  to  God, —  pure,  earnest  and  sincere, — 

So  softly  breathe  "  I  love  thee,"  sweet  and  clear. 

Yet  waits  a  greater  happiness  than  this, 

When  love  for  love  is  given.     That  is  bliss! 

Then  will  your  heart  with  stronger  pulses  beat, 

And  warmly  throb  with  rapture  new  and  sweet, 

And  in  it  find  new  strength,  and  talent  wake 

As  from  a  dream,  high  tasks  to  undertake. 

But  there  is  happiness  e'en  this  above. 

'Tis  that  of  great  Humanity's  best  love, — 

Real  love  of  Christ  that  warms  us  as  the  sun; 

In  God's  word  is  bread  for  every  one, 

In  life  on  earth  amid  the  crowd  alway, 

In  light  of  wisdom  and  the  light  of  day; 

In  thoughts  of  our  ancestors  we  recall, 

In  labor  and  salvation  unto  all; 

In  merciful  forgiveness  of  our  sins 

Through  that  surpassing  love  that  gently  wins. 

My  little  girls,  let  ev'ry  one  believe 

That  happiness  like  this  she  will  receive. 

Let  each  pursue  it,  look  for  it,  and  know 

That  beauty,  joy  and  study,  even  woe, 

Were  given  you  as  help  most  wise  and  kind 

That  you  at  last  sad  happiness  might  find. 

EPITAPH. 

Here  at  all  times  all  things  are  full  of  gloom. 
He  who  indiiferent  is  will  grieve  you. 
He  whom  ardently  you  love  will  leave  you, 
And  who  loves  you  is  laid  within  the  tomb. 

Here  there  is  naught  to  comfort  or  to  cheer; 
Here  suffering  is  your  portion  ever.- 
Oh!  better  'tis  to  sleep  and  waken  never; 
'Tis  better  in  the  quiet  grave  than  here. 


456       POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  POLAND. 


OLIZAROWSKL 

THOMAS  OLIZAROWSKI,  a  prolific  and  popular  writer 
of  poetry,  such  as  "Dumki"  (mournful  poems)  and 
Sonnets.  He  also  wrote  several  humorous  pieces, 
which  were  much  admired.  His  greater  poems,  such 
as  "Solemn  Praises,'.'  "Psalms,"  and  "Complaints," 
gained  for  him  a  wide  reputation.  His  "Tales  in 
Verse,"  the  best  of  which  is  "The  Storm,"  and  a  poem 
in  the  romantic  spirit,  "Bruno, "are  classed  among  the 
first  productions  of  the  kind. 

It  is  a  matter  of  regret  that  we  have  no  particulars 
of  this  poet's  life.  His  works  were  published  at  Cra- 
cow, 1836-9,  and  at  Breslau,  1852.  He  also  com- 
posed a  drama,  "  Yincent  from  Szamotul,"  which  was 
published  in  1850. 

BE   MINE. 

How  difficult  to  gain 

From  your  sweet  lips  one  word, 

Must  I  seek  in  vain, 

Content  with  hope  deferred? 

How  dearly  I  love  thee; 

Speak!  let  me  know  my  fate. 
I  can  no  longer  wait 

Whate'er  my  sentence  be. 

Beauty  must  have  her  way, 

Yet  grant  to  me  some  sign; 
Quite  wild  with  love  I  pray, 

Ah!  dai'ling,  be  thou  mine! 


OUZAROWSKJ.  457 

LUCINA   AND   THE   STREAM. 
My  Lucina  doth  resemble 
This  clear  stream,  whose  waters  tremble; 
'Tis  her  lovely  image  surely, 
For  it  flows  so  gently,  purely. 

But  when  I  recall  how  yonder 
Streamlet  parts  its  banks  asunder, 
I  incline  to  think  I  wrong  her, 
That  the  likeness  holds  no  longer. 

For  I  know  her  nature  tender, 
Kindest  service  seeks  to  render; 
That  she  would  if  in  her  power 
Join  these  severed  banks  this  hour. 

Therefore  she  cannot  resemble 
This  clear  stream,  whose  waters  tremble; 
For  these  shores  she  would  not  sever 
Keeping  each  apart  forever. 

CHLOE   AND   THE   STUMP. 
Oh,  how  much  this  object  here 
Reminds  me  of  my  Chloe  so  dear; 
I  mean  this  quiet,  silent  stump, 
As  crooked  'tis  as  she  and  plump. 

But  then  this  stump  in  silence  rests, 
Secluded  from  all  noise  and  strife, 
And  no  bad  temper  manifests; 
It  leads  a  peaceful,  quiet  life. 

Not  so  with  my  beloved  Chloe, 
From  quiet  she  is  far,  I  know; 
In  angry  tones  she  scolds  at  me 
If  things  are  not  as  they  should  be. 

No,  I  am  sure  'twas  a  mistake; 
No  real  resemblance  can  I  make; 
Would  she  like  it  were  free  from  guile, 
Nor  storming  at  me  all  the  while! 


458  POETS    AND    POETRY    OF    POLAND. 


A.  A.  JAKUBOWSKI. 

IN  closing  this  collection  of  poets  and  poetry  of 
Poland,  the  editor  introduces  one  more  name,  which 
will  ever  remain  green  in  his  memory,  and  which  so 
vividly  reminds  him  of  his  own  life's  changes  and  its 
vicissitudes.  Young  lakubowski  was  his  political  fel- 
low prisoner  at  Briinn  and  Trieste,  and  the  companion 
of  his  youth,  and,  what  is  more,  born  and  brought  up 
in  the  same  part  of  Poland.  He  was  a  young  man  of 
great  poetic  genius,  and  by  his  early  death  Polish  lit- 
erature has  lost  much.  Moreover,  he  possessed  noble- 
ness of  character  and  kindness  of  disposition  such  as 
are  rarely  found.  He  composed  many  fugitive  pieces 
of  great  poetic  beauty,  some  of  which  were  translated 
and  published  many  years  ago  in  a  small  volume  en- 
titled "Remembrances  of  a  Polish  Exile,"  but  we 
could  not  obtain  a  copy. 

lakubowski  prided  himself  much  in  being  a  relative 
of  the  poet  Malczewski,  and  while  engaged  as  a  teacher  at 
Stockbridge,  Massachusetts,  he  heard  that  the  brother 
of  the  poet  was  a  general  in  the  Mexican  army.  He 
went  to  Mexico  and  found  him,  but  the  haughty  man- 
ner of  his  proud  relative  wounded  the  spirit  of  the 
youth,  and  he  returned  to  the  United  States  very  much 
depressed.  He  never  seemed  to  recover  from  this 
check  to  his  sensitive  and  poetic  soul,  and  amidst  un- 
satisfied aspirations  and  ruined  hopes  death  claimed 
him  for  his  own  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  years. 

ODE   TO   NAPOLEON.     , 

i. 

Great  as  thou  wert,  Napoleon !  thou  lost  but  little  blood 
In  the  mighty  cause  of  liberty,  the  holy  and  the  good. 


A.    A.   JAKUBOWSKI.  459 

Thou  thoughts!  alone  on  how  another  gem 

Thou'dst  place  upon  thy  empire  diadem, 

Or  how  another  pearl  thou'dst  find 

To  add  unto  thy  wreath, 

That,  placed  in  Fame's  high  towering  dome, 

Shall  never  yield  to  death. 

n. 

Like  some  volcano  on  the  plain, 
Thou  poured  on  earth  thy  burning  rain, 
Made  monarchs  tremble  at  thy  word, 
And  balanced  Europe  on  thy  sword. 
Gay  wert  thou  with  honor, 
Sad  with  glory,  too,  wert  thou, 
For  the  darkness  of  ambition 
Sat  enthroned  upon  thy  brow. 
Not  only  kings  didst  thou  hurl  down, 
But  for  a  while 

E'en  fate  did  wait  upon  thy  smile 
And  tremble  at  thy  frown. 

in. 

E'en  as  the  ocean,  wave  on  wave, 
Fights  'gainst  the  rocks  its  waters  lave, 
And  vainly  makes  its  surges  roll; 
So  did  those  base  and  paltry  things, — 
Europe's  hereditary  kings, — 
Fight  'gainst  thy  adamantine  soul. 

IV. 

And  e'en  when  exiled  o'er  the  sea, 
They  trembled  at  the  thoughts  of  thee; 
And  though  the  iron  bolt  of  fate 
Had  crushed  and  left  thee  desolate, 
There  was  a  magic  in  thy  name 
No  spell  on  earth  could  e'er  resemble, 
To  make  the  wildest  monarch  tame, 
The  boldest  conqueror  tremble. 


INDEX. 


LIST  OP  ILLUSTRATIONS  .  .  5 
POLISH  ACCENTED  LETTERS  6 
PRONUNCIATION  OF  POLISH 

POETS 7 

INTRODUCTION  .  .  .  11 
HISTORY  OF  POLISH  POETRY  17 
KEY— 

Sketch  of  Life      .       .       .36 

Virtue 37 

Vice 38 

What  Poland  was  340  years 

ago 38 

A  Thought  .  .  .  .38 
Anecdote  ....  38 
Useless  the  yield,  etc.  .  .  39 

KOCHANOWSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .41 
The  Greatness  of  God  .  .  42 
Thren  I  ....  43 
Thren  VII  .  .  .  .44 
Threu  IX  .  .  .  .  44 
Threii  X  ....  45 
Thren  XIII  ...  45 
From  Canto  XIII  .  .  .46 
Tales  of  St.  John's  Eve  .  47 

Excerpts 53 

KLONOWICZ — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .54 
Merits  of  Poland  .  .  .56 

MlASKOWSKI — 

Sketch  of    .       .       .       .58 
Dialogue  between  Death  and 
a  Young  Maiden      .       .  58 

SZYMONOWTCZ — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .60 
Sielauka  (Pastoral)  .  .  61 
Sielanka  XIV,  Jealous  Wife  64 
Epigrams  ....  68 
ZIMOROWICZ — 

Sketch  of 69 

Song 70 

Sielanka 71 

Sielanka  ....  72 
Sielanka 72 


GAWINSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .74 
Pastoral  (Sielanka)  .  .  74 
Bones  -on  the  Battle  Field  .  77 
Soldier  Slain  ...  77 
The  Ploughman  and  the 
Lark 77 

DRUZBACKA — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .79 
Spring 80 

SARBIEWSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .81 
To  the  Cicada  .  .  .82 
To  Liberty  ....  83 
A  Thought  .  .  .  .87 

KONARSKI — 

Sketch  of    .       .       .       .88 

NARUSZEWICZ — 
Sketch  of       ....  92 
Consultation  of  Animals  .      95 
Who  is  Foolish     .       .       .97 

KNIAZNIN — 

Sketch  of  ....  99 
A  Reverie  ....  100 
Eternity  .  .  .  .101 
Religion  ....  101 

MORAWSKI — 

Sketch  of  ....  102 
Giermek  ....  103 

KARPINSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .Ill 
Morning  Hymn  .  .  113 
Evening  Hymn  .  .  .  113 
Yearnings  in  the  Spring  114 
Peace  that  Virtue  Brings  115 

WORONICZ — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .  117 
From  the  Temple  of  the 

Sybil 120 

Love  and  Virtue  .  .  121 
The  Poles  .  .  .  .121 

KRASrCKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  123 


461 


462 


INDEX 


PAGE. 

The  War  of  Chocim  .  .  128 
How  much  to  Drink  .  135 
Drunkeness:  A  Satire  .  136 
Fables:  The  King  .  .  139 
The  Lazy  Oxen  .  .  .139 
The  Mosquito  and  the  Fly  139 
The  Boys  and  the  Frogs  .  140 
The  Ram  and  the  Jackass  140 
The  Standish  and  the  Pen  141 
The  Dog  and  his  Master  .  141 
The  Tallow  Candle  and  the 

Torch  ....  141 
The  Fool  and  the  Sage  .  142 
The  Tortoise  and  the  Mouse  142 
The  Haughty  Rat  .  .  143 
The  Cat  and  the  Hound  .  143 
The  Two  Painters  .  .  143 
The  Child  and  the  Rod  .  144 
The  Shepherd  and  his 

Sheep  ....  144 
The  Captive  Bird  .  .  145 
The  Philosopher  .  .  145 

WENGIERSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .146 
My  Wife  ....  147 
What  one  Likes  .  .  .  148 

TBEMBECKI — 

Sketch  of  ....  151 
Baloon 153 

NIEMCEWICZ— 

Sketch  of  ....       157 
America  and  Gen'l  Wash- 
ington   165 

United  States  ...  166 
Duma  Glifiski  .  .  .167 
Duma  Potocki  .  .  .  171 
Fastidiana  ....  175 

D]tf6cHOWSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .  184 
Cracow's  Environs  .  .  185 
Castle  of  Oycow  .  .  185 

MINASOWICZ — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .186 
The  Maiden  and  the  Rose  186 
What  you  are  .  .  .  187 

FELINSKI — 

Sketch  of      .       .       .       .188 
Polish  National  Hymn  .      188 
From  the  Tragedy  of  Bar- 
bara Radziwtt  .      .       .  190 

KROPINSKI — 
Sketch  of  .  191 


Human  Life  .       .       .       .192 
A  Fragment  from  his  Elegy 
of   Hedwige,   Queen    of 
Poland  ....       194 

OSINSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .195 
In  Praise  of  Copernicus  .  196 

WYBICKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .200 
Poland  is  not  yet  Lost  .  201 

MICKIEWIOZ — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .203 
Primrose  ....  210 
Ode  to  Youth  .  .  .212 
New  Year's  Wishes  .  214 

To  M— 215 

A  Moment  and  a  Sparkle  217 
From  the  "  Ancestors  "  .  217 
From  Faris  .  .  .  .218 
From  the  same  .  .  218 
Father's  Return  .  .  .218 
Childe  Harold's  Farewell 

to  his  Native  Land     .       222 
Translation  of  the  same  into 
Polish    ....       223 

BRODZINSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .228 
The  Father  and  his  Son  .  232 
The  Old  Man  .  .  .  233 
Slander  ....  235 
Friendship  .  .  .  .235 
Wiestaw  ....  236 

KRASINSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .257 
Pray  for  Me  ...  264 
Ever  and  Everywhere  .  264 
To  a  Lady  .  .  .265 
Once  I  asked  the  Day  .  266 
Resurecturis  .  .  .  267 

SlOWACKI — 

Sketch  of  ....  273 

I  am  so  sad,  O  God  .  .  280 
Extracts  from  Stowacki's 

Tragedy,  Mindowe  .  .  282 

GARCZYNSKI — 

Sketch  of  ....  290 

Military  Sonnet  .       .  .-  292 

Conversation    .       .       .  293 

ZALESKI — 

Sketch  of      .       .       .  .295 

The  Poet's  Song     .       .  297 

Tis  different  with  us  .  .  298 


INDEX. 


463 


Unas  inaczej  (the  same  in 

Polish)  .       .       ..-.       299 
To  my  Guitar      .       .       .  302 
JACHOWICZ — 

Sketch  of  .       .       .       .       303 

Sunset 305 

The  Little  Orphan  .  .  306 
Mother's  Warning  .  .  307 
The  Little  Jewess  .  .  307 
The  Widow's  Mite  .  .  308 

KORZENIOWSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .  309 
The  Last  Labor  .  .  .311 

WASILEWSKI — 

Sketch  of  ....  314 
Upon  the  Rocky  Shore  .  316 
Memory's  Tear  .  .  317 

JAS"KOWSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .318 
A  Tale  ....  318 

ZAN— 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .323 
Triolets  ....  326 

GASZYNSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .328 
Shakspeare  (A  Sonnet)  .  330 
When  by  the  Shores  of  your 

Beloved  Land      .       .331 
The  Young  Warrior  and  the 

Swallow    ....  332 
Envy 333 

BOGUSlAWSKI — 

Sketch  of      .       .  .       .334 

She  only  Laughed  .       .       334 

LENARTOWICZ — 

Sketch  of      .       .  .       .336 

Ever  the  Same.  .       .       338 

DEOTYMA — 

Sketch  of      ....  343 

Symphony  of  Life  .       .       345 

BERWINSKI — 

Sketch  of  ....  358 
The  Exile's  Song  .  .  359 
On  the  Lake  Gopto  .  .  359 

MALCZEWSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .  364 
Extracts  from  "  Marya  "  .  367 

GOSZCZYNSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .  371 
Conscience  ....  375 
New  Year's  Prayer  .  376 


PAGE. 

POL— 

Sketch  of      .       .  .       .379 

Song  of  the  Mound  .       382 

Little  Star     .      V  .       .  384 

KONDRATOWICZ — 

Sketch  of  ....       387 

Death  of  the  Nightingale  .  390 
•  The  Soldier  Wanderer  .       391 

The  Ploughman  and  the 
Lark 392 

Countrymen,  I  beg  assist- 
ance      ....       393 

Mathew's  Unlucky  Turns  395 
ODYJUEC — 

Sketch  of      .       .       .       .397 

Prayers  (A  Legend)       .       397 

JULIAN  KORSAK — 

Sketch  of      .       .  .       .401 

The  Frozen  Tear    .  .       402 

My  Beloved  One  .  .       .403 

WlTWICKI — 

Sketch  of  ....       404 

Cupid 404 

The  Warrior  ...  405 
Josephine  ....  406 

GOSlAWSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .  408 
Had  I  the  Royal  Eagle's 

Wings        .       .       .       .408 
Uncertainty     .       .       .       409 
RAYMUND  KORSAK — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .411 
Ode  to  God  ...  411 
Extract  from  a  Religious 

Poem     ....       412 

GORECKI — 

Sketch  of 413 

Doom  of  the  Traitor  to  his 

Country         ...       414 
To  a  Lady  Laughing  at  a 

Stammering  Poet    .       .  417 
Fables :  The  Oxen  and  the 

Spaniel  ....       418 
The  Big  Ship  and  the  Small 

Boat 418 

The  Drop  of  Water       .       418 
Sparrows       -       .       .       .419 
BALINSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .  420 
Exile's  Prayer  in  the  Spring 422 
What's  the  use  of  Dreaming423 


464 


INDEX. 


The  Living  Corpse  .  .      423 
UJEJSKI — 

Sketch  of      .       .       .  .425 

Hymn  of  Complaint  .       426 

Under  the  Ground     .  .  427 

HolOWINSKI — 

Sketch  of    .     .       .       .429 
The  Orphan  .      .       .       .430 

KRASZEWSKI — 

Sketch  of  ....      437 
Ah !  my  dear  Angel  .       .  439 
The  Sea     ....       439 
Bioro     Drawer    and    the 
Head 440 

SlENKIEWICZ — 

Sketch  of     .       .       .       .441 
Varsovienne     .       .       .      442 


PAOE. 

ZMORSKI — 

Sketch  of  ....  445 
Sighs  from  Far-off  Land  446 
In  Peasant's  Clothes  .  447 

ZMICHOWSKA — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .448 
Fancy  Flights  .  .  .  453 
Longing  ....  453 
To  My  Little  Girls  .  .  454 
Epitaph 455 

OLIZAROWSKI — 
Sketch  of  ....      456 
Be  Mine        .       .       .       .456 
Lucina  and  the  Stream  .       457 
Chloe  and  the  Stump        .  457 

JAKUBOWSKI — 

Sketch  of  .  .  .  .458 
Ode  to  Napoleon  .  .  458 


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